Broken Song
by kamikaze-djali
Summary: A girl with some psychological issues likes Quasimodo. Quasimodo is trying to find balance outside Notre Dame and learn more about his past. I've taken down the ending for revision and improvements. If you really want the unrevised ending, IM me.
1. Preface

_**Author Note:**__ This borders on being a Mary-Sue. Fortunately, the sole purpose isn't her and Quasi getting together, it's more on Quasi learning about his past. Started writing this eight years ago, occasionally coming back to it. Feel free to comment on anything, be harsh (yet constructive) as necessary. Please note the story is finished, and will be posted as editing and formatting permits. I am re-working the ending to strengthen the plot and make everything better overall._

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_**Preface**

Mother and child sat in the candlelit tent. Incense floated in the still air in delicate ripples. An older child, about eight, sat on the floor playing with an old doll. Her hair lay in a cloud around her head, her blue and yellow dress crumpled around her delicate legs. Her name was Calliope. She laughed and played with the doll, then rose to dance with it.

The mother sat the young boy on her knee and watched as her oldest daughter danced on the worn carpet, her skirt swirling with each step an imaginary beat. She began to sing as her mother clapped.

_Deep in the woods on a starry night_

_I feel the song of a woodland spirit_

_I close my eyes, and see the words_

_Love is a tune that's never ending_

_Now you may ask, how I know_

_Of a voice that travels without body_

_It's all in the birds and the deer that run_

_The wolf that hunts and the river flowing_

_The land is alive, for those who know_

_It just takes love and a heart to listen_

_For the familiar tune on a starry night_

_The silent voice of the woodland spirit_

The young girl bowed to her mother, then to her ill baby brother. The mother was overjoyed at the sight of her beautiful child, her precious Calliope, singing and dancing with such grace and beauty.

Calliope enjoyed the attention and began another dance. She would prove herself, she would become a dancer of the streets and help her mother to feed her family. She swung the doll around her head, as if a partner.

The doll was soon snatched away from her by a younger child, a fight being the result. The mother watched as Calliope was pinned to the ground by her youngest daughter.

"Let me up!"

"No! You took Anna!"

"You weren't using her!"

"You STOLE her!"

"I needed her to practice!"

"Mama! Calliope stole my doll!" The mother picked up the doll and handed it to her young son, who began chewing on its head.

"Both of you. You must work together, no more of this fighting over such things as dolls! There are much greater things to worry about." Calliope stuck her tongue out at her sister and received a slap for it. "Now the both of you. If you don't fight for the rest of the day, I will allow you to perform with Clopin tomorrow. No fighting for a whole day."

The children grinned and soon made up. A day with Clopin in the city was something to look forward to, something worth not fighting to achieve.

The girls got along and soon found themselves in the streets of Paris with Clopin. They soon got bored, however and wandered off. Calliope began dancing on an empty street corner and collecting coins as she danced. Her sister played the flute beside her. They both laughed at how easy it was to make money. Clopin was so cautious, when in fact there was nothing to fear.

The girl's happiness shattered when leather clad hands rested on their shoulders. The younger sister caught a glimpse of a soldier.

"Run!" screamed Calliope.

The two girls ran across the square and past Clopin's wagon. Calliope overtook her younger sister, running toward the giant building across the square. The doors opened as Calliope fell against them, her sister fell on top of her. An invisible hand shut the door behind them.

"We're safe now, bibet." She petted her sister's head. "Clopin says this place is always safe."

The younger gypsy looked up to the person who had shut the door. "Sanctuary is for all. This way, children."

Calliope stood and followed the priest, her sister in tow. Two sets of eyes looked upward, soaking in the beauty of the rainbow walls and checkerboard floor. Neither had ever beheld such beauty. The smell on incense touched their noses.

The priest led them to a narrow cloister to rest. "You may stay here as long as you wish."

The two girls sat next to each other throughout the evening, where the bells woke them up. The sound came directly from above and caused the two girls to tremble. Chanting monks emerged from the cloisters, the smell of incense became stronger. The girls could only feel the movement as the monks walked past. It was too dark to see anything.

"We'll be alright here?"

"I promise you."

The two gypsies returned to their slumber, awaking as the first morning rays pierced through the rose windows. Bells rang out above them as they did the night before. Both girls rose to leave.

As the girls walked out of the Cathedral, they passed a tall figure dressed in black, carrying a basket. He looked down at them and sneered, then continued on his way.

The youngest girl looked up at the judge, her eyes watching him as he walked on. She'd been told he was evil, that he was a danger to all gypsies. Meanwhile, Calliope had fled the Cathedral at the sight of him.

A scream came from the square, the young girl turned her head toward the open door. She forced her way through the crowd making it's way into the church for morning mass. Nobody moved to let her pass, they ignored her.

She emerged to see the square nearly empty. Two hands scooped her up from behind and carried her off. She fought, then realized the hands that held her were gypsy hands.

When she awoke, she was back in her mother's tent. Her mother stood by the entrance, her baby brother screamed. Calliope was no where in sight, her tambourine lay on the chest. The younger sister stared at the doll that sat next to her. There were much more important things to worry about, such as family. She stroked the dolls' hair and placed it next to the tambourine.

The young gypsy soon fell asleep, expecting her sister to walk in at any moment. Calliope arrived soon after her mother stepped out.

"Bibet! Bibet! Wake up!"

"Calliope! You've come back!"

"For a while, I must leave shortly. Don't worry about me, OK? I'll never be far from you."

"You have to stay. Mom cries without you."

"I have to go."

"Why?"

"I just do. I love you." Calliope walked out of the tent.

The young gypsy cried and soon woke up. A mere dream.

Two weeks later, a the body of an eight year old girl was discovered in the river. Her hair was a mess of black curls braided with tinsel and had been cropped. She wore a blue and yellow dress.

That night, the mother bundled her son in a blanket, her daughter in tow, to leave Paris forever more.

Many miles away, a man of twenty-one sat before an empty fireplace still mourning the loss of his gypsy lover and family. They were gone forever, he'd never see either of them again. He fingered the yellow-white blanket that lay on his lap. It had belonged to his lover and once swaddled his own child, his sweet baby. Had it really been so long ago? Tears flowed down the man's face in steady steams. He didn't care. After the loss of one's family, what else mattered? The young man looked out his small window into the darkness. He was alone.

to be continued...


	2. Part 1

**PART 1 **

It was dark and wet. A man was chasing them on horseback. Her elder sister ran ahead, leading the mother and two young children through the shadowy streets towards safety. The mother gathered her young son in her arms as her other daughter struggled to keep up behind her. She was holding her hand, but the girl had no more strength left. She tripped and fell on the hard cobbles. Her mother stopped and turned around

"Carmen! Get Up!" She couldn't. Something held her back.

The hoofbeats got stronger as their pursuer approached. The mother clutched the boy to her breast, her gaze drifting behind Carmen. Her eyes, even in the blackness of the night, showed pure terror. Her own mother, her own baby brother, her entire family. Her mother's eyes were wide and fearful, eyes of one who knows they are about to die; the silent scream that comes before death.

"Go, Mama"

She bit her lip and ran. The eldest sister was no longer in sight.

Carmen pulled herself into a rubbish pile waited and prayed. Yet it was not for their lives, but for their souls; she knew she would never see her mother again, or her baby brother. As for her sister, she was already dead. Her mother was following her spirit.

The hoofbeats became stronger as the young gypsy held herself close to the pile of wet stinking hay and rotted kitchen waste. As they thundered past, the tears started to flow from her eyes like small rivers. The hoofbeats trailed off down the alleyway, then stopped. Her mother screamed as the horse's iron shoes slid on the stone street towards her trembling body. For a brief moment she could hear her brother crying into the night, then silence.

Nearly choking on her own tears, she sniffled them back up her nose. She was alone. Carmen peered out from under the rubbish. The street was clear, or was it? The girl could hear the hoofbeats approaching, or was it the pounding of her own heart? She drew herself back under the rubbish pile and watched as a figure on a dark horse drew nearer. All that could be seen was the horses' breath, dissipating into the coolness of the autumn evening. She could not make out the mans' face, but could see as he rode past that he wore a three cornered hat, trailed by a long tassel. The tassel gently swayed with the horses' movements, whilst the rider sat in icy stillness.

Several moments after the figure had passed by, the odor of horse sweat and blood lingered. The stink of the moldy hay seemed aromatic compared to the putrid stench of death. She sat there alone, in the waste pile, throughout the night. She cried, she shivered, and she prayed. If God would only have mercy on her family and let them into His kingdom of heaven. If He would only help her to survive, have an angel come down and help her. She needed His help. She was four years old with no home, no food and no family.

It was the next morning that God had granted the little girls' prayer. It was a mixture of spoiled pea soup, pear cores and eggshells dropping onto her head that woke the small gypsy from her disturbed sleep. She screamed as the mysterious liquid crept into her tangled hair and cloths, and over her face. Two weathered hands reached toward her. Instinctively, she drew farther back into the pile. Then she heard his voice.

"It's all right, my little one." He placed his left hand, upturned a few inches from her chin moving his fingers in unison, whilst encouraging her to come out of the muck-pile. His voice was soft and deep, yet there was gravel in it, no doubt from years of hard labor.

"You can't stay in there, child. The dogs will eat you" At that point, she believed him. Only years later did she come to realize that if they were to eat her, it would have been during the night.

The young girl slowly crawled out of the rubbish and looked up at the man who had dumped the soup on her. He was a giant. He had graying blonde hair and was badly sunburned. His arms were large, thick and bore wide purple scars. What had her attention were his hands. Large, strong, powerful and gentle hands. Hands that could drive nails into stone in one blow, hands that could pick a speck of dirt from a rose without damaging its bloom. His face bore light gray eyes matched by a large smile, and was littered with laugh lines and crow's feet. Although he was missing some of his teeth, his smile was the most inviting she had seen until that time. He was by no means handsome, but friendly in every sense of the word. After studying him thoroughly, she stood up. Wiping her soiled hand onto her even dirtier skirts, she placed it in his.

He took the gypsy into his home and soon had her bathed, clothed and fed by his housekeeper. Elsa was short, plump and merry from head to toe. She walked with a limp, which the girl would soon learn was from an old injury to her left leg not healing properly. Elsa's smile was bright and cheery, littered with wrinkles from years of smiling. She, too, showed signs of having worked hard all her life. She was about thirty. Although Gabriel had told her the girl's name was Carmen, she called her Kira. So persistent she was, that she became known as Kira.

The man's name was Gabriel but she would soon come to know him as "father". Indeed, he treated her like a daughter. Kira wanted for nothing yet had to pull her share. Gabriel was single, aging and a carpenter, making carriages and fine furniture for sale to the rich families of Paris.

Kira's first night with Gabriel and Elsa became a memory etched in stone. Having clothed her in one of Gabriel's shirts, Elsa presented a hearty meal of pot roast, carrots and sweet cakes, of which she ate little. After dinner, Kira was given a small room of her own; a cot in part of Elsa's which was divided using a sheet. It was Elsa that tucked her in.

"You be a good girl, Kira. I know it seems bad now, but everything will be just fine."

Using her apron she dried the streams of tears that gently flowed from the girl's eyes.

"You'll be a happy girl, you'll see. We keep you away from that horrid man."

Her aged lips touched the girl's forehead. She smiled at her, gently stroking the side of her face.

"Sleep well, little one."

The old shop was just inside the walls of the city. The new minister of justice had been leading Paris with an iron fist, or so Kira heard them mention among friends. Hangings and burnings of Gypsies were becoming more common with each passing month. For three years this had continued, finally, Gabriel had enough. Kira was about eight when this occurred; she remembered staring out from the back of Gabriel's cart amongst the tools, furniture, pots and pans, leaving Ile de la Cite in the early morning. Her attention was fixed on Notre Dame. Such tall towers, singing such beautiful melodies. She had overheard him and Elsa discussing the move.

Soon afterward, a small area was set aside for Kira in the loft. The ceiling sloped, yet there was sunlight to wake her in the mornings and birds to sing along with her as she practiced the violin or flute in the evenings, with Elsa as her guide. Kira had indeed become a happy girl. It was not that she had forgotten what had happened when she was younger, it wasn't in her. However, she found peace in the thought that the Lord had answered her prayers that night. An angel had been sent to help her, therefore one had also been sent to her family. They were in heaven.

It was Kira's job, while still young, to sand and paint the unfinished pieces of woodwork. As she got older, father taught her how to put rough carvings onto the doors and lids of chests and cupboards. As Gabriel's sight began to fail in his old age, Gabriel pushed her to learn to do more.

"You've done well, my daughter. I only wish you were my own," he would tell her.

Many years passed with Gabriel and Elsa. Each day was pretty much the same. Sundays the family attended mass. During the week, they would work in the carriage shop until afternoon, when Kira would cook the evening meal, and they would go out for a walk together afterward. Saturdays, it was Kira's duty to go to market and tend to the housework. Elsa cooked breakfasts and lunches. In the evenings Kira would practice her violin with Elsa, and maybe learn a few letters. The years passed by quickly and before she understood what was happening, she had grown into a young woman.

Thursday afternoon the shop was nearly empty and all the work for the day having been completed, at least what Kira was capable of doing. Mounting Dante, Kira set off for the marketplace. Although it was not the day she normally went to market, Kira wanted to use this rare opportunity to look around, rather than scurry through as usual. She wanted so much to look at the fabrics, metal goods and weaponry the merchants had to offer. She was also looking for a cutlass or other small sword, as a means of protection from the many guards that had frequented the town the past few months, targeting gypsies. Her long black hair and dark eyes made her a target as well, even though her dress was that of a peasant.

Dante, a small chestnut mare, had been a gift from a neighboring farmer. Kira had given her the name, as the mare was tough, spirited and had been a curse to her previous owner. She was not difficult to train, but stubborn. She would accept neither saddle nor harness on her back, refusing to move once they were fastened. During a ride she had been known to stop, at which point she would refuse to move until the rider dismounted. Once free of her rider, she would gallop off, leaving the rider miles from home. This had caused such frustration to her owner, he had given her to Gabriel after a thirty-two mile walk in the rain. The old man soon passed the mare onto Kira, as a means to get to market quickly. Let it be mentioned that Dante never once let either Kira or Gabriel stranded, but rather stood by their sides as if a faithful dog.

Reaching the marketplace, Kira left Dante at one of the stables. Had anyone tried to ride her, she knew that she would be in fathers' barn when she returned. Having just bought some cheese, Kira began the trek to the wine seller. It was while crossing the marketplace that she heard the song. An older Gypsy woman was singing something that she had never heard before. Kira struggled to hear her, but could not make out her words. Forgetting about the wine, she made her way toward the singing gypsy, her eyes fixed into the gaze of the old woman. There was something about this woman that held her interest.

Nearly out of breath, Kira caught only the last verse of her song. It was so beautiful, yet saddening. That verse stuck in her head the rest the time at market, on the ride home and as she prepared dinner. Kira hummed the mysterious tune as she prepared the soup. Lost in her own world, she nearly burned the dinner rolls. Elsa and her father whispered in the next room.

"I haven't heard that song in ages, who taught it to her?"

"How am I supposed to know, you old coot! Probably heard it in the marketplace, after all, it is Thursday"

"Think we should tell her what it means?"

"I'm not going to. She'll never want to go there again. And be quiet, old woman. She's gonna hear us!"

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Kira's appearance was not something that held her main focus. That evening, she took the time to look. Her hair was thick yet fine and fell to her waist when not securely plaited. It was cut straight across and black as the darkest coal. She had grown fairly tall with darker skin, from working at the shop, glowing a shade of brown between that of her father and that of the gypsies. She had grown into a woman, but when? Surely this did not occur overnight, yet this was the first time she had truly noticed. Admiring herself for a few more moments, she resumed her usual evening activities, giving it no more thought.

Picking up the violin her father had given her, she began to play softly. Then sing the song she heard from the old gypsy woman.

_This song fills the darkest corner_

_Reaches the most distant soul_

_Pulsates our very spirits_

_With hands we'll never know_

_Unknown beauty, unseen love_

_Haunting melodies, sent from above_

She couldn't remember the rest of the song, so repeated it twice, playing the same tune over and over. It had to mean something deep. Was this a song of creation? Or was it more simple, referring to music in general, and how it lifts the spirits of the people? She laid down onto her soft bed, wrapping the quilts around her body. "With hands we'll never know" The hands of God? Hands of time? Hands of all that play music? Or maybe the song meant nothing; maybe music was a metaphor. "Sent from above?" Music as a gift from God?

The song also contained the lines "Through the darkness, a maiden fair" and "The judgment hath come", or was it "judge"? It was something she would have to either ask about, or learn for herself. This song had to be a story of some sort; some mythical tale that held the attention of young children, perhaps. Or maybe it was a dark tale, meant as a warning.

It was the next morning, chopping carrots, she suddenly realized what the gypsy's song referred to. "Hands we'll never know", "pulsates", "song sent from above". Bells, or rather, the bell ringer. It had to be Rouen, Riems or Notre Dame, one of the cathedrals. "Haven't heard it in ages", so it was an old song; something horrible had to have happened for it to survive so long, or to be remembered.

Tossing the onions into the boiling water with the ham-bone, Kira reached for the salt. Stirring mindlessly her mind began to wander once more. Notre Dame, it had to be. Paris was a dangerous place for gypsies, for the past twenty years at least. Judgment or judge? Judge Frollo made more sense. It was he who had been responsible for the death of many gypsies, including her true family.

Reaching in with a iron spike she pulled the bone out. Should've pulled it out earlier. Kira quickly poured some dried peas into the brew, hoping no one would notice her mistake.

"Maiden fair" remained somewhat of a mystery to her. A young Parisian man and his lover. The young man fights valiantly to save his gypsy love, yet is beaten by Judge Frollo and his soldiers. The young man is then forced to watch as his lover is slain before him. He is then left in the dark street with her body, carrying her to Notre Dame with his remaining strength. His one true love lost forever, the young man devotes himself to the church and now rings the bells. Such a romantic story. If only she had heard the rest of that song.

Pouring more water into the pot, Kira covered it over and set it farther from the fire where it would finish cooking but not burn. Father would be needing her in the shop shortly. Much of the work he had done for years was becoming difficult for him to do alone due to failing eyesight and strength. Fortunately Kira, or the blacksmith, was able to do much of what he couldn't.

As the weeks passed by into late February, the tune left Kira's conscious mind, indeed, she was busy with chores in addition to carving, cutting and painting in the shop. As the weeks wore on she soon noticed that both Father and Elsa were coming to depend on her more than ever. Father would frequently have to rest while working in the stable; Elsa's face, full of colour all the years she had known her, was beginning to grow pale. More noticeable, however, was their general appearance. Elsa had always been plump, father thickset and muscular. The past few months, both had become thinner and their wrinkles deeper; the telltale signs of age had caught up with them.

However the partial song remained in the back of her mind, transformed into dreams of young love found and tragically lost. Two lovers, meeting in secret. A handsome young Parisian man strolling by the Seine, a beautiful gypsy girl with black hair and green eyes holding his hand. They share a passionate kiss near the one of the bridges. The girl soon hears hoofbeats and looks up to see Claude Frollo approaching. Warning her lover, he quickly turns to see Frollo's horse less than ten feet away. He draws his dagger, begging for her to run. Frollo's soldiers emerge from behind the shrubbery and walls, surrounding them. In one motion Frollo draws his sword and knocks the weapon out of the man's hand. A pair of soldiers then forces the man to the ground. Frollo rides up to the girl, fingering her neck as a burly soldier holds her. Her lovers' dagger in hand, he slits her throat, the girl dropping lifelessly on the ground. Frollo then rides on, his soldiers behind him. The young man is left alone with the body, his heart bleeding over her loss. Kira's dreams continued filling in the rest of the song, she continued wondering if she was right.

Images of Claude Frollo alone soon filled Kira's mind. Silent pantomimes of him watching her Mama and baby brother die. Death at the end of his sword, archers, soldiers and horses' hooves. Gypsies being burned alive as he looks on, drinking in their blood with his evil eyes as if sweet red wine over his lips. Bodies piling up in Montfaucon, remains being tossed into the Seine. Such a flood of grisly images, inescapable.

It was early March when Gabriel decided it was time to return to Paris. Word had reached the shop that Minister Frollo was dead. From what she could discern, the city was once again safe for gypsies. So Kira was right, the song was of Judge Frollo and Notre Dame. His death would be sure to resurface tales about his evil deeds. Elsa refused to ride, preferring the perceived safety of a wagon. Kira rode Dante.

As the hours passed, she became bored with her surroundings. It was a somewhat dull landscape, fields, trees, and a small village, all seen from the rutted-out dirt rode which led to Paris. Fields of cattle and sheep, the occasional hut and cowshed dotted the landscape. Carefully, Kira scanned the horizon for the slightest hint of the Cathedrals' towers. Paris was a full day's ride away and they had been on the road since sunrise. Yet they were traveling at a walk for most of it, which meant it may take another day. Father would either make camp or continue traveling throughout the night. Kira was unsure.

As the sun began to set Kira looked over at Gabriel, who showed no intention of stopping for rest. Paris must not be far off. Elsa slept by his side. Dante and Rose, the other horse, seemed to be holding up well. Kira ruffled through her sack, finally bringing out some now-broken biscuits, which she ate greedily.

The sun set, the sky darkened. They rode on. The rocking motion of Dante must have put Kira to sleep, for she suddenly realized her surroundings had changed. The ringing of church bells, be them far off, reached her ears. Before her, she could see the ghastly remains of what used to be a mill, illuminated by the pale moonlight.

"Halt!" Gabriel brought the wagon to a stop. Following the direction of his gaze Kira understood that this was once a home. A home where they would have spent the night, now a skeletal frame of charcoal, ready to collapse at any moment.

"Haw" Rose started at a slow walk, reluctant to leave such a long-deserved rest.

While leaving the burned-out mill, Kira's weary eyes caught sight of a small child, running in the darkness. She glanced at Gabriel. His eyes followed the child's' path. So she wasn't seeing things. Gabriel looked toward her and gave a quick nod. Follow.

Shortly after the pursuit began, it was over. Robed figures quickly surrounded the travelers. A tall figure, presumably their leader, stepped toward them.

"Who goes there?"

"Tis Gabriel Poivre, and family returning to Paris."

"State your business."

"We have come seeking shelter. We were to stay with Andry Coictier, yet the mill has burned."

Murmuring could be heard from the small group of figures, which was slowly increasing in size. "Where is Andry?" Kira heard one say. Gabriel remained stone-faced, Elsa lay asleep beside Gabriel.

A plump man was led to the front of the crowd, before the tall thin man.

"Do you know this man?" He pointed toward Gabriel.

Everything depended on Andry recognizing her father. Scanning the crowd she realized much relied on it. The torchlight revealed the many swords, knives and daggers hiding among the crowd, which now surrounded them. Kira's attention lifted upward to a gallows, awaiting its next victim. She dared not move, the slightest move may set them upon her and her family

The commotion must have awakened Elsa, as Kira soon noticed her arms reaching above her.

"Silence" Exclaimed the tall man, holding his arms out from his body. The crowd fell silent.

Andry strained, looking at him carefully. "Well…" grasping a torch from a nearby figure he held it up, presumably to get a better view, "I do nowt recognize that man..." The crowd began to advance. "…but I seem to remember that woman." He made a motion toward Elsa, who had just sat upright.

The crowd ceased its advance, yet remained poised.

"You know this woman?"

"Aye, well enough. She be my wife's sister."

"And the man?"

"'Tis her cousin."

"And the girl?" snapped the tall man.

"I would hope she's not their daughter." Andry began to chuckle. " Diane! My sweet! Your sister has come to see you."

Not a moment later a much younger version of Elsa emerged from the crowd. " Oh, Elsa!"

Kira was unable to understand a word they said, but knew from their reactions that we were now safe. Stroking Dante's neck she slid from her back and onto her feet. Kira's legs ached from riding the entire day. Smoothing her skirt over her legs, she came to realize the blanket she had placed on Dante had done little to keep her clean. Dante in hand, Kira followed the tall man, who's name was Clopin, toward their camp. Rose and Gabriel followed closely. Much farther behind, Elsa and Diane continued to chatter.

Kira could not recall much as for what happened that night; it was a mix of lucid dreams and reality. The food was strange, yet vaguely familiar. She remembered watching as a white nanny goat danced to the mandolins, flutes and songs of the gypsies, for that is who they were.

The glow of an orange sun was just beginning to show over the horizon when Kira was awaken by a rough pink tongue grazing over her face.

"Djali! No!"

"Bwwahhhhhh" Kira watched as the goat stepped back, looking up toward a young woman. She smiled at her, then ran off .

Hearing a whistle, Kira looked toward her left. Gabriel was sitting in the cart, Elsa by his side. A Gypsy boy held Dante. Wiping the goat's saliva off of her face, Kira proceeded to get up and take the mares' reins.

Dante in hand, the family resumed its trek toward Paris. As the sun made it's first appearance, the bells began to toll. The bell ringer. Kira began to hum the song softly so Gabriel would not hear her. The words began to escape her lips, she must have heard them during the night.

_Through the darkness, a maiden fair_

_Pray God watch o'er her son_

_In trade for her, his life to spare_

_Once the Judge hath come _

_Baby crying, unjust hate._

'_Tis not by chance, but twist of fate_

_Within the heart of Our Lady_

_Lives the son alone_

_Once a babe, now a man_

_Watching the city below_

_Unknown beauty, unseen love_

_Haunting melodies, sent from above_

_His song fills the darkest corner_

_Reaches the most distant soul_

_Pulsates our very spirits_

_With hands we'll never know _

Kira caught sight of father watching her. "The bells are beautiful, aren't they."

Gabriel smiled, but said nothing.

Kira had been right about Frollo killing the Gypsy girl at Notre Dame and the origin of the bell ringer, she had been wrong about who he was, suddenly it made more sense. The bell ringer was Frollos' prisoner, isolated since infancy. Somehow, she had to learn more about this man; she had to meet him.


	3. Part 2

**PART 2**

George sat down in the tavern, hungry for a meal and thirsty for ale. Not so many months ago he had been fighting in the wars with the gallant Captain Phoebus. It had been a bloody battle, two horses had been shot from under him. He'd come out of the battle less a finger, with stained britches. The slaughter had been pointless, their opponents were peasants, farmers with pitchforks and stones.

George stared at the stump that was once his finger, a finger that held a golden ring that had been lost in battle. He stared at a woman with her child in the corner of the inn, longing for the days when he looked forward to a child. If she knew what he'd done, her heart would surely break.

George took another draught of Vodka. He missed her every day, every waking moment since she'd died in the hands of a supposed midwife. No tears fell, George just buried his sorrows in the never-ending flow of liquor. Had it really been so long? He was a young man when she was taken, young with black hair and all his teeth. His hair was now gray and his teeth all but there, those not knocked out were yellow and long.

He was once a hero, someone who could stand proud. A man who once had everything, then lost everything. Now, he was just another drunkard in a tavern, living each day with a bottle, Venus and the devil in his hands. He leaned into the bar over the cheap vodka. Life had gone downhill since the Gypsies took his wife and child.

George thought back to five weeks ago when a gypsy took everything he owned. While it was true that he had accidentally taken Trouillifou's horse, by no means was the act planned. He had been drunk, mounted to ride home and unfortunately mounted the wrong horse.

The horse galloped along willingly for a bit, then stopped suddenly. All George remembered was waking up in the middle of the river without clothes or weapons, on a large piece of wood. There was no horse nearby for him to ride. In fact, the gypsies had taken his mount with them. George had looked down at his nakedness. Curse those filthy sorcerers!

George remained on the bar, a flask in his hand. As the night wore on, the inn slowly emptied, the people either leaving or retiring to their beds. Three of four figures remained in the inn, sitting at their tables and talking among themselves.

The soldier continued to swirl the vodka in his cup. He watched as a badger sniffed the ground outside of the tavern, looking for scraps, he contemplated. At that moment a gypsy woman stood up from the table, held her child to her chest and booted the badger away from the door. She dropped a coin on the table and ran out of the tavern, spouting strange words.

George muttered cusses under his breath. There was no such thing as a sane gypsy. The landlord must have noticed his confusion.

"They usually run when they see a badger, you know. It's not that unusual."

"I've never seen such a thing."

"Them badgers, you see, are possessed by the devil. You let your child near them, the devil will move out of the badger and into your child."

"I never heard such a thing, Monsieur"

"I assure you that I speak the truth. Why, it wasn't so long ago that the devil took a child in just that way."

George was skeptical, he sat back in his chair and asked that the landlord explain himself. The man asked for George to buy some wine, which he did, then agreed to share his tale.

The landlord set a bottle and two flasks between them. George pulled the cork and filled both cups. The man behind the bar began to speak softly.

"It had to be a few years back, just after I built this place. It was late at night in November when four gypsies, a woman with two men and a child in swaddling clothes moved through. The child, they said, had been cursed after a badger had been killed in their camp.

The woman would not speak, but sat in the corner over there with her child. They left the next morning, having paid a tidy sum for their room. They were like gypsies I'd never met before. They did not steal, they did not cast spells. They merely rushed through.

It was the next day when I learned that the woman with the child was the supposed wife of an English Nobleman. He was there in the tavern asking about her and the child. I turned the man away, saying that I saw nothing. After all, gypsies are whores, not wives.

Anyhow, the man went on to tell me that the child was his. Not so long ago there had been two of them, teenaged lovers driven to start something forbidden. To recall what I heard, let us have some more wine."

George filled the landlords glass and his own.

"In my opinion, they got what they deserved. The Egyptian has no business in the life of good Christian men. From what I was told, the two teenaged lovers ran off together in the night. The young man held his love in his arms. Their love was forbidden, Nobility did not associate with the heathen gypsies. He kissed one passionately. Deciding to elope, the two young lovers ran off with her tribe. The man had no other choice but to leave his home, his family and riches to be with the woman of his dreams. He didn't care.

Unfortunately, the woman's brothers felt differently about the arrangement, especially when the wedding jug failed to break. When she became pregnant, it became even worse for the man and his lover. Yet love soon prevailed, and the men knew there was no changing the mind of their sister.

In early November, she gave birth to a beautiful boy. He instantly softened the hearts of the tribe and her husband was finally accepted, if only as a foundling. That child was the most beautiful either parent had ever seen. Sky blue eyes, fiery red hair. The child was strong & healthy, promising to be as strong as his father. The elders doted on the child, saying her would grow strong, someone his people would be proud of once he was a man. Others warned the mother that the child was an ill omen of sorts, but neither parent believed that.

One wise woman read in the cards that the child would achieve greatness, become a hero loved by all and marry the daughter of an outsider. The runes said he would be raised in a world of corruption, pain and suffering. He would grow not knowing who he was and would spend his life lost in a dream. The parents didn't know what to believe, since only one of the predictions could be true, they were opposite to one another. Among the predictions was a poem, written by the father as a fortuneteller read it from her cards.

Rather than disown their sister, her brothers soon accepted the father as a family member and allowed him to stay with them as the child's father. The tribe continued to travel throughout England, staying at farms and camping in the countryside. One afternoon, one of the older children brought a badger she had caught into the camp, to keep as a pet.

Soon afterwards, a curse arrived at the camp. Within a week several children had died. The mother guarded her baby, tried to keep him safe, but it was soon discovered that he too would become ill. His parents prayed for the child's' life. "Keep him safe, Lord. Please. Don't take him away from us." The young mother prayed, day and night, holding her child in her arms. The father killed the badger in a fit of rage.

By the end of the week it was clear that the beautiful child wound not die, but suffer another fate. By February the sickness began to change his form. The child's uncles blamed his father for killing the badger and forcing it's demon into the beautiful child. They turned him away from the tribe and refused him the right to see his wife and his sweet child. Weeks passed, the child did not get any better. The father followed the camp, meeting with his beloved whenever possible. She'd bring news of the child and cry into his shoulder. The pain of not seeing his son drove the father into madness.

It was early March when the cold snow was blowing and the tribe decided to move out of England. The father assumed this was due to his following the tribe. She must have begged for one last meeting, however, as she approached him one cold March morning with the child in her arms, accompanied by two of her brothers. Tears filled her face as she restrained herself from proclaiming her love. She simply looked up at her lover with her midnight eyes and tears began to stream down her face.

The mother held forth the bundle in her arms. Her son, her precious son. He would always be beautiful to her, no matter the changes that had been made to him. The father gently uncovered the boys' face. The father was not prepared for what he saw, yet knew he was his boy through his eyes. The boy looked up at his father silently, not really understanding what had happened to him. His little angel, now resembled a demon. His son. The poor man held the boy to his chest and cried.

Having pleaded with the gypsy men to let their sister and him raise the child together. They refused. Forcing the boy out of his arms, they turned to walk away, leaving the man in the snow, on his knees. His lover turned around as they led her, her deformed son and his life away. Her eyes were filled with tears, she called his name once, then resigned herself to her fate. The next day the broken hearted father watched as her people disappeared into the distance.

Unable to return home to his family or betrothed bride after that day, the brokenhearted man became reclusive. The only love he had was for his wife and his child. His fathers sent men to look for the runaway groom yet by that time he had lost weight and looked like a beggar."

George looked again toward the door. "What happened to the mother and child?"

"Never heard from them again and am thankful for it." The landlord polished his cup. "Though it is likely the woman continued her life as a whore and the demon became a sorcerer."

Pouring the last of the wine into a beaker, the landlord took a long draught. George had yet to take a sip of the wine in his flask. The landlord took another coin from George, then retired to sleep.

Having no more coins for wine, the old soldier left the inn and went outside into the cold night. The price of a room was immense, more than he was willing to spend.

In the morning George set out to the next town to visit a pretty whore he'd met not long ago. She had all her teeth, ample bosom and childbearing hips. More importantly, she had a warm bed she was willing to share with him.


	4. Part 3

**PART 3**

Elsa, Gabriel and Kira rode into Paris with their belongings, accompanied by a small group of gypsies, over Ponte Notre Dame. Many eyes watched as the old couple in the wagon and the young maiden who led a red horse.

The young men in the marketplace looked over their shoulders as the small group of travelers rode through the narrow bridge to the square, then to a charred building. She seemed not to notice, but watched the horse, riding by in a daze or perhaps deep thought. Were women capable of thought? Many of the men shook their heads. No, it wasn't possible. She was in a daze. Their eyes followed her every movement, she was certainly pretty. Filthy, a gypsy, yet pretty.

All eyes were on the trio as they stopped and began to unload the wagon. Having dismounted her horse she stood and watched her surroundings, her eyes drinking in the visage of Notre Dame and the twin towers. The old man began to unload the wagon, brushing her arm as he passed. The girl startled, then joined the others in unloading the contents of the wagon into a nearby shed.

The girl struggled with some of the heavier packages, yet continued to unload the wagon. When the Gypsies left, she remained with the elderly couple. The crowd dispersed with the gypsies, only a few young men remaining. Another family returning to rebuild the life they had lost.

Clopin, the leader of the Parisian Gypsies, walked toward his puppet wagon under a purple blanket. He slowed down when the sound of uneven footfalls reached his ears.

"Clopin, who are they?" a long pause, then soft words. "Who is that girl?"

Clopin turned to his friend. "I know little of the couple. As for the young woman, she is a sister."

"Your sister?" Clopin's friend looked disappointed.

"One of my tribe. Not my actual sister. If she is who I think she is, her mother was a charming woman who met a terrible end."

"Frollo" Clopins' companion sighed.

"You are learning." Clopin smiled. "That couple seemed so happy to have her, she was never reclaimed by the tribe. She had no other family, her father apparently a Gadje with a wife and two children. It seems although he wanted something more out of his trip to Paris. I don't remember the girl's name, I was too young. Besides, so many were lost during that time that her name would be forgotten like the rest." The two men stopped, Clopin shed his cloak and tossed it into his wagon.

"Like mine."

"We never would have forgotten you, had you reached the Court of Miracles with your family." said Clopin as he leaned against the open door to his wagon. He stepped inside and slipped a puppet onto each of his hands. "I will see you later this evening. Esmeralda and her soldier are returning tonight & would like for you to be in the Court to welcome them."

Clopin's friend nodded in agreement, then walked to the Seine to spend some time alone with his thoughts.

Kira wanted so much to walk right into the towers of Notre Dame, yet knew that she had to wait until everyone had settled in. If she were to charge into the place right away, Gabriel may suspect something. Instead, Kira made attempts to put her efforts elsewhere until the time was right. That said, there was much to do. During most of March, father, Marcelle, Andry and Kira were working in the shop on a daily basis. Father was no longer strong enough to lift the heavy planks required to build and repair the carriages and chests, let alone repair the charred walls.

Each day Kira could see a brightly-coloured gypsy wagon across the square, yet never managed to get near enough to hear the storyteller. She wanted so much to walk over to meet the mysterious man that seemed to fascinate all passers by, especially the ladies. At any given time there would be at least one girl watching him with puppy-dog eyes.

Kira expected that as the month passed, that she would learn more about the city into which she had just moved. She hoped to at least learn the name of the bell ringer, hear stories or at least overhear on Sundays while in Notre Dame. Not so. Elsa went to market, Danté stayed in the stable. Kira worked. Kira's hands became callused from the knife, not that she was complaining. She was glad to relieve father of the work; glad to keep her mind on something. But to have at least an hour or so to explore. Paris was safe for Gypsies, so she would be safe as well. Just an hour was all she wanted, to walk around the City.

Friday morning, while dumping the dishwater into the gutter, a streak of blue and purple caught her attention. Gazing upward, Kira caught sight of the skinny gypsy man bolting across the square, three girls not far behind him. The silliness, all of it. If he had wanted, he could have easily dropped a smoke ball and disappeared, leaving those empty-headed girls to turn around in circles, wondering where he went to.

No sooner had Kira completed her thought, she heard a girl scream. All three stood on the cobbles, turning around endlessly in a pale green mist. So the little man was actually trying to get away this time.

The last drops of water fell out of the bucket onto the ground. Passing through the beginnings of a busy day in Paris, Kira made her way back to the shop, which was near one day from completion. Such interesting people they were. The Bourgeois walked straight lines from here to there, noses upturned, or passed by in the carriages that she and her father built. The merchants shouted across the square, advertising yesterday's pies as fresh today. The populace hummed about, talking, working, and in the afternoons, drinking. Old people yelled at young people, dogs barked, the odd cat darted between dogs, horses and people. Through this chaos rode the soldiers, always at noon and five o'clock.

It was the first week of April when the shop was finished and Kira was finally able to explore the city a bit on her own. She set out across the square. Of course, she had been given instructions by Elsa to pick up a new copper pot, but aside from that, the next hour was hers.

Kira made her way through the marketplace. These people were for the most part what she had observed the past month. Arguing over the price of a leg of mutton, a mangy grey dog following it's every move with hungry eyes as the butcher waved it in the air. In one motion the dog jumped up, grabbed the meat, and tore toward an alley, while the two men looked at each other blankly. She bought a large pot from the tinsmith and continued her trek.

Leaving the Parvis Notre Dame, Kira's eyes led her to a beautiful young gypsy dancer. Her feet barely touched the ground as she moved effortlessly to the music of the mandolin. Such beauty, her black hair and green eyes flashing as brightly as the coins that shone as they filled her hat. Her purple skirts swirled as she moved, gilt anklets flashing light with the beat. She looked happy, as did the younger boy that played with enthusiasm.

A lump formed in Kira's throat as she looked to the west and saw the Palais de Justice. If only things had things been different. That would have been her sitting on the ground, strumming merrily. That beautiful dancer, dressed in silk and tinsel, could have been her sister.

Tossing a coin into the girls' hat, Kira turned to walk away, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Hearing the jingle of a tambourine, she turned to see the dancer smile.

Kira continued to walk through the city, toward the wagon of the storyteller. So much had changed from what might have been. Then again, if she had stayed, she may have suffered the same fate as the rest of her family. There were so many questions and she was in the right place to answer them.

Walking to the edge of the square Kira peered down every alley and street. One of these was where her life had changed, and she had no idea which. Father's new home was re-built away from the old one, which had burned long ago. There was no way to know which it was. Letting her eyes wander, she spotted a small boy and a thin grey dog bolting between two buildings. They would be eating well tonight.

Clopin stood in his puppet wagon giving a show to the local children. He noticed a new member in his audience of young women. Here he was, playing with puppets and he managed to have so many admirers.

The storyteller brought out each of his puppets in turn. It was a show about Esmeralda's fight for her life and her upcoming marriage to the "Sun God". The Sun God puppet was poorly made, it's head bobbing crazily with every movement. It was no big secret that Esmeralda's choice in man displeased the storyteller. Phoebus was nice enough as a man, but not a Gypsy. There was little he could do.

Esmeralda was his friend, Phoebus was his friend. He was Duke of Thunes, King of Gypsies. Clopin didn't know what to do with the situation, so he did what he did best. He mocked it.

As Clopin finished his puppet show, he realized most of the older people walked away, leaving a few coins behind them. Young people surrounded him, and several young women stood around the back of the wagon. He threw a smoke ball and disappeared, leaving the wagon empty. The children wandered away, while the women continued to peer into the windows calling "Clopin, Clopin?". Some people were beyond help.

The new girl walked around behind another wagon, noticing him immediately.

"Bonjour, monsieur Clopin."

Clopin jumped as he realized someone was watching him. "Good day, Cherie. You have been very clever to have found my hideaway.."

"It wasn't hard, I saw you run over here"

"You must not give away my trick"

"What trick is there?"

"Therein lies..."

Clopin was cut off by the sight of a face peering around the corner at him. "I found him!"

Clopin was gone.

Setting the copper pot on the hay pile, Kira began to brush Danté's coat with some knotted straw. It was going to be a challenge to talk with that storyteller, but she knew he had the answers to many of her questions. If only she could get to speak with him.

Daydreaming as she brushed Danté, the sounding of the bells brought her back to reality. It was nine o'clock; Elsa would need this pot to make dinner and she was needed in the shop. A Bourgeois had ordered a chest for his sweetheart and it was Kira's job to engrave it, since her father was too blind to tell a fork from a spoon.

While carving the box Kira's mind drifted. Three days from now, Low Sunday, she would somehow pick her way through the crowd and attempt to slip into the tower. She debated her thoughts a bit longer. No. It would be much better to come before, when the bells were being rung. She already knew which stairway to take into the tower and figured it would take her a good half hour to get from the shop to the top of the tower unnoticed.

Kira continued to play out her actions for Sunday, while carving birds into the side of the chest. It was meant as a wedding gift for a wealthy Bourgeois woman from her suitor. It wasn't that big, about as wide as her forearm, no taller than her fist, probably meant as a jewelry box. Coming along nicely, but certainly not something she would want for herself. Every inch was to carved with either flowers or birds and the woman's name on the lid. Foolish and frivolous, but it would feed her family for a couple weeks.

At noon, Kira sat back to enjoy the tolling of the bells. Next Sunday, she would know for sure if the song was true. Once they stopped, Kira picked up the box and made her way into the house for lunch. There was only the lid to finish and that could be done this afternoon before father and her started building the carriage, provided father had already picked up the wood. The frame was already complete, the rest still needed to be built.

Elsa was ladling out pea soup when Kira walked in. Always pea soup, made with salt pork. Not her favorite dish, indeed it's one of the few things that she outright hated. It had been dumped on her head fifteen years ago. Deciding it would be hopeless to not eat, she took her place at the table. Father spoke, his raspy voice.

"I'll be takin' Danté with me this afternoon to get the wood for that carriage. Kira, would you mind harnessing her up after lunch?"

Elsa and Kira looked at each other, then at father. He was definitely losing his memory.

After lunch Kira petted Danté, then moved toward Roses' stall. A few moments later, she led Rose out of the small stable and to her father.

"Rose. Uh, yeah. Thanks, Kira."

Father got into the cart, Rose walking slowly walking toward Ponte-Neuf.

That same afternoon Kira sat on the woodpile to finish carving the lid to the chest. Two songbirds, wrapped in a long ribbon. The rest of the box was covered with roses and leaves. It was ornate to the point of being rather gaudy, but was what the man had ordered. Thus, she continued to slice in detail after detail.

As she fiddled with her knife among the leaves and petals, something caught her eye. It was not the gypsy wagon with the storyteller, nor the brightly-dressed dancers. They were in the streets every day. It was a blue-cloaked figure passing through the crowd, remaining close to the buildings away from the rest.

Setting down her knife Kira watched him more closely. Indeed, it was a he. She could tell by the way the figure walked, or rather, limped. He seemed out of place some how, perhaps he was a traveler. He seemed to know where he was going, but not entirely sure. Having shooed a fly from her ear, Kira looked up, unable to find the man. She picked up her knife and continued carving. Paris was such an interesting place.

It was about ten minutes later that Kira saw the man once more, carrying bread and wine. He was walking on this side of the street, perhaps he would pass by the shop and she'd get a better view. He seemed to be hiding, for his cloak covered his body and face. True, it was rather chilly, yet he did not draw his arms under himself as a cold man would do. Kira continued to watch the ground. If he felt she was not watching, he'd be more likely to walk her way.

Through the corner of her eye Kira could see him approach, it was working. She wanted so badly to stare right at the mysterious figure, yet knew she could not. The man was about ten feet away. Kira purposely let the knife slip from her fingers and land on the ground.

"Oops"

The young man, she could tell by his hand, picked up the knife and held out the handle for her.

"Thank-you" Kira looked up as she grasped the handle, but could see little of his face, for he turned his face down and away.

" I…. I… You're welcome." The young man turned away, ready to leave.

"No, wait!"

The young hunchback turned swiftly around, his hood falling back around his neck. He quickly pulled it back into position, but it was too late. Kira'd seen him. She'd never seen such a face, far different than that of other men. His hair was as red as Danté's, his skin pale. Her first impulse was to shriek and look away, yet she could not bring herself to do so; there was something about him that told her he was harmless. It was in those sky-blue eyes; he had the most beautiful eyes.

He turned away once more.

"Please wait."

This time he stepped toward Kira.

"Why?"

"I've not seen you before, are you new to Paris?"

The hunchback sighed under his breath. "I've lived here all my life. Indeed, you are new to the city."

"True. Father and I moved back just last month."

For a moment, he stood there, silent and motionless. "...do you do all this yourself?"

"Just the ones with fish and ivy."

Kira handed him the box she'd been working on and he smiled. His face, what little she could see of it, was so expressive. He ran his large finger over the letters she'd carved into the ribbon. "Fleur De Lys. Is that your name?"

"No, of course not. That is who this is for. Of course, it will never be noticed, since very few can re… You read that?"

"Uh huh…"

"Who are you?"

The hunchback lowered his gaze for a moment before, looking deep into Kira's eyes, his expression frozen. Staring back, she clearly saw there was much behind his eyes.

"You don't know?"

"How would I? As you say, I am new to Paris."

"I'm …"

"Kira!" Elsa shouted through the kitchen window.

"I must go, now." The hunchback stepped away.

When Kira returned her gaze toward the square, he was no where to be seen.

The man continued to wander through the crowd after leaving the carriage shop. Why had he gone over there? There was nothing he needed there. He'd come to market for bread, wine, and some sort of meat that was within his price range. No, the man thought, something called me over there, I had to go over there. I'm glad I went over there.

The young man smiled at how the girl had reacted to him. She seemed a bit frightened at first, as most were, but then she appeared curious more than anything. The way she looked into his eyes, the way she studied every one of his features. No fear, no intimidation. Just pure fascination. The young hunchback didn't mind, her behavior suggested to him that she might like him.

He envisioned the young girl once more. Her hands were rough, yet her touch so gentle. Her hair was tightly bound, yet he could tell that is was long and silky. Her eyes were a dull green and sparkled as she spoke to him. Or had they? It may all have been in his imagination. Kira, he thought. Kira. Interesting name, he'd never heard it and could not decipher a meaning in any of the languages he knew. Romany was unknown to him, but if memory served him right, Romany names were not spoken in the presence of Gadje.

Her hands were rough. She was carving a box, actually carving detailed images and words. She knew letters, very few could read and all were students, members of the church or foreigners from Greece. She was none of the above, she was a gypsy. Yet she couldn't be. No gypsy reads. She had to be the girl Clopin had talked to about earlier, it fit so well. Had Gadje raised her, it would be possible. However, some things still didn't fit. A reading gypsy woman, raised by peasants. No. It didn't fit at all.

Quasimodo looked into his market basket at the bread, wine and turnip. A few eggs would be nice. He continued to walk through the crowd, hidden under his cloak. He didn't seem to realize that nearly everyone knew who he was and was used to his appearance by now. The occasional "Good morning Quasimodo" or "Good day Monsieur Bellringer" did nothing to convince him that his secret was blown, that his disguise fooled no one.

Having returned to the belltower, Quasimodo looked around at the gloom and darkness that surrounded him all those years. Cobwebs, dust and birds throughout the whole tower, dampness and darkness. It was so bright and sunny out there. Quasimodo asked himself how he had done it, remained hidden in such a small gloomy place for so long. He ran his hands over his arms, feeling the scars hidden by his shirt and remembered.

That night Quasimodo's dreams took him back before his first memory. The words in Frollo's scrolls were acting themselves out, creating images that caused him to tremble with fear. The calm way Frollo had acted when carrying out the most sinful acts chilled him to the bone.

Quasimodo's thoughts drifted back to his first years and he began to wonder. Did he even care about me? He fed me to grow strong and healthy, he taught me more things than most students will ever know, he introduced me to God despite his evil ways, he did raise me as a person, where my appearance combined with superstition would have spelled death. Frollo surely must have loved me at some time during my life.

In another part of his mind, Quasimodo knew Frollo had practiced black magic, locked him away, killed hundreds of people and tried to kill him on more than one occasion. His words "I who took you in and raised you as if my own son", "anyone else would have drowned you" ,"poor misshapen child" and "I knew you would die to save that gypsy witch, just as your own mother died trying to save you." They still haunted him. Perhaps it was true that not one single moment in his entire life had Frollo ever loved him.

Frollo was very much dead, he'd seen his remains buried on unconsecrated ground. He'd been the only one to weep over his death. Many others rejoiced, which he well understood, but even his freedom did not overshadow the sadness he felt as he watched the remains of what had been his life for the past twenty years, teacher, protector and father, flung into the cold earth.

Sadness over Frollo, the death of an evil man, did not make himself evil as well. It merely showed that he had loved Frollo despite his cruel treatment and harsh words. Grief, excitement and fear mixed themselves in his mind. He was his own master now, having only God to answer to. Was it wrong to be glad of this? Was it sinful not to mourn Frollo's death extensively? Would it be sinful to mourn him? Only Esmeralda seemed to understand what he was going through those few days after Frollo's death. She comforted him with the news of his mother's murder. Only she understood what the loss of his family, Frollo and the Archdeacon meant to him. Esmeralda understood him as no one else ever had.

The morning after the raid Quasimodo had found the Archdeacon laying at the foot of the stairs, unable to arise. He asked Quasimodo if everything was over, if the Gypsy girl was safe. Quasimodo answered his questions as he supported the injured clergyman on his way to the Hotel Dieu. The streets were empty, most of the populace stood before the Cathedral waiting for the heroic Phoebus de Chateaupers to emerge, Esmeralda in hand. A novice answered the door, shocked to see who stood on the other side.

"Sister Monique. I need your help, I fear my leg has been broken."

"Of course, come right in. This way." She looked up at Quasimodo. "Sister Conception, would you help me?"

"Sister. This is the bellringer, I've known him all his life. He will help me to move if you only show us where to go."

The young nun, still nervous of Quasimodo, led the two churchman through the corridors to a small room where the Archdeacon laid down to rest on a soft bed. The Archdeacon smiled at Quasimodo as the nun guided him out of the room. Quasimodo's job was done, the Archdeacon was now in the hands of the nuns and God.

The Archdeacon left for a peaceful monestary shortly afterward; a fractured leg, arm and multiple bruisings being enough to convince him that Notre Dame de Paris was not the quiet Parish he had sought. The Archdeacon left his entire library in Quasimodo's keeping, thanked him for his many years of faithful service and was gone by mid January. He did not announce his departure, nor did he give any more sermons. He was too ill, too sore to stand. He had used Quasimodo for support while he made his way to the carriage that would take him away forever. Quasimodo did not let on that this bothered him, but rather he returned to his tower and continued ringing the bells as if nothing had occurred.

The new Archdeacon arrived the following week and seemed thrilled to be in Notre Dame with the bellringer he had heard so much about from the Bishop. He instantly wanted to become Quasimodo's friend and chattered to him endlessly. Once again Quasimodo was glad that words fell upon deaf ears. He didn't want to listen to his endless prattle.


	5. Part 4

**Part 4**

It was while feeding Rose and Danté that night Kira realized everything was back to normal at last, if normal ever really happens. The shop was built, the house completed. The space was small, with the stable shop and house attached as one building, and it was finished. No more working into the late hours of the night after the day's carriage work and carving was done. No more standing in front of the hot stove while Elsa ran off to market, waiting for father to call her to help with a heavy board or carriage wheel. Looking around, she realized that she could resume playing music, spend time with Danté and learn more about the city, rather than merely dream or observe.

Setting herself down in a pile of wheat straw Kira picked up her long forgotten flute. Brushing the hay dust and chaff off of it, she put it to her lips and began to play a song she had learned from Elsa. As she played, Danté began to dose off. Something else, something more vibrant. Kira thought back, something she had not played in a while.

Suddenly, Kira remembered a song she had heard as a child. The words ran through her mind as she played, though she knew not what they meant, Romany was lost to her. Kira continued to play each verse, staring at the dust on the stable floor. The words were fuzzy in her mind, but knew the notes well and flowed smooth as the Seine. She continued to play in the darkness, facing Danté, who was beginning to wake up. She watched as Danté's ears perked up toward her. Danté liked this tune.

Kira continued to play.

Suddenly, the words came clear into her mind.

_"My love has gone to Paris, _

_My heart has gone to stone. _

_My child don't cry for Papa_

_He'll not be coming home..."_

She played on.

_"Sister stay away from Paris,_

_Your family loves you so._

_Don't chase after their Papa_

_You'll not be coming home..."_

Danté's ears pointed to the door and Kira realized the words were no longer merely in her mind. Through the corner of her eye she could see a young gypsy woman at the door to the shop, singing. Her white dress was torn and stained with blood, her black hair cut short.

Nervously, Kira continued to play. The woman continued to sing. Kira watched as Danté began to back further into her stall, shaking herself into a sweat.

_"Dear soldier, sweet lover"_

Kira turned to face the woman

_"Don't you remember..."_

Kira looked directly at her. Her eyes were deep-set, pits of blackness set upon ghastly pale, sloughing skin. Around her neck was a thick rope, tied into a long coil of knots that fell down her emaciated back, revealing her broken neck.

Kira dropped her flute onto the wooden floor.

She was gone.

Quivering, Kira quickly rose and fastened the door to the stable. Leaving the flute on the floor, she entered Danté's stall. Danté was still shaking, as was Kira. Burying her face into Danté's red mane, tears began to flow from her eyes. Not again. Not this.

Kira nearly jumped out of her skin when something warm touched her side.

Danté nuzzled her, as if to say "It's going to be all right."

Kira patted her neck once more, which was now dry.

"Goodnight, girl. "

Kira made her way up to her bed in the loft. Father and Elsa were fast asleep.

Nervously Kira stared into the darkness from beneath her cover. Not even a full moon, total blackness. As she stared into the night, all she could see was specks of colour moving about in the darkness, forming images. Why was that woman there? Why did I have to see her?

Kira clamped her eyes shut, only to be met with the same blackness and faces. There was no such thing as pure blackness, it only served to show you what you were too blind to see in the light.

Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. The box. It was finished. That woman would surely love it, marry her lover and live happily until the end of her days. The wedding would be beautiful, the bells would sound throughout all of Paris announcing their joy. Kira attempted to picture the bride and her lover standing at the alter, their hands being ceremoniously tied with a satin cord.

The image did not last long. However, she somehow managed to fall asleep. Elsa was pulling at her toe the following morning, just before sunrise.

* * *

Quasimodo returned to the belfry and began another carving. He soon lost interest in it and decided it would be better to get out of this dark and damp place. A few birds flittered about the rafters, he was alone. He didn't want to be alone. The Court of Miracles, although equally damp, would not be so empty. Esmeralda would be there as well.

Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, Quasimodo leapt out the window of the belltower and climbed down the side of the Cathedral. Without aid of light or guide he made his way through the darkened streets toward the Court.

He lifted the grate, lowering it as he passed through. The entrance from the cemetery had been closed off after Frollo's raid and was now heavily booby trapped. The smell was horrible, dog and human feces lingered on the air. He'd never smelt anything like it before and hoped he would not smell it again. Thankfully, sewage never crept into the Court.

Quasi's shoes scraped the shallow puddles of murky water, soaking through. There was such a long way to go and the putrid stench burned his nostrils, the ammonia burned his eyes. Much longer and he would surely wretch.

Eventually the smell began to lessen and Quasi sensed the presence of others hiding in the dark passages, guards who watched his every move. They must have recognized him immediately, as none advanced, yet remained hidden in the darkness. Moments later, the smell of sewage became masked by incense, wood fire and beer. If he could have heard it, laughter filled the air. As he turned a corner, a faint light pierced the blackness of the underground. The Court of Miracles at last. There would be much in the way of festivities tonight, as Esmeralda had returned after a detour into Scotland. The sweet smell of rosewood incense drifted on the breeze.

A large bonfire fire blazed in the centre of the Court with the forms of men and women dancing around it, silhouetted by the long tongues of flame. His good eye focused on a tall slender woman who moved more graceful than the rest, La Esmeralda; firedancer. He had to speak with her, only Esmeralda seemed to understand him even slightly.

The red glow of the fire cast long shadows on the damp cobbles. Outlines of feverishly dancing gypsies following the beat of drums, flutes and string instruments. Quasimodo could see the gypsies playing them nearby, they must have sounded wonderful. As he stared at the musicians he felt hands on his shoulders and turned to see Esmeralda's smiling face.

"Dance with me!" she laughed, pulling the bellringer towards her and the fire.

"It's good to see you, too." Smiled the bellringer, as he stumbled along behind his friend.

Esmeralda stood still, the rest of the gypsies stood still. Quasimodo looked over to see the band, their instruments in a state of readiness. Suddenly, they began to move, the gypsies began to move. Quasimodo gulped nervously.

Esmeralda touched his cheek gently. "Just follow my lead."

Quasimodo soon caught the beat of the song he couldn't hear, his feet moving in unison with the others. Esmeralda twirled at the end of his arm and back, smiling the whole time. It was infectious, soon Quasimodo was smiling as well and caught up in the laughter and joy of the evening.

Phoebus walked in to see his wife dancing wildly with the bellringer. His eyes remained fixed on her, what was now every bit of joy in his life, in the arms of another man. He drew up his shoulders and breathed out heavily while staring at the bellringer. They continued to dance, oblivious to all around them.

The music stopped, all the dancers stopped including Quasimodo and Esmeralda. They smiled, then let go of each others hands. Quasimodo was the first notice him standing there. An innocent dance was all it had been, pure innocence. Did Esmeralda not have the choice to choose her own dance partner in his absence? Did Quasimodo not deserve a dance with his friend?

Phoebus shook hands with Quasi and embraced Esmeralda. The music had died down for the night, it was time to eat dinner and meet the travelers who had come back from England & Scotland, bringing stories and news.

Quasi mingled with the crowd, finding Solona in the process. She gave him no notice before she took him by the arm and dragged him away from the dancing and to her tent. She motioned for him to sit, Quasimodo obeyed. There was something in her eyes that demanded it, perhaps it was wisdom or sorcery. Quasimodo wasn't sure. He'd never seen her before, but knew who she was. Esmeralda had told him. More importantly, Solona knew him and what he was thinking. Her eyes stripped him to his soul, making him nervous.

Solona drew the curtain to the tent, surrounding them in darkness. With a flint, she lit a candle and set it on the floor between them.

"Quasimodo, lost child. You wonder why I bring you here, don't you? You are in danger." Solona lowered herself before the bellringer, who sat on the red and purple rug. "You cannot remain in Paris, you must leave."

Quasimodo was confused. "I cannot simply leave. The bells, my friends, Notre Dame. I can't simply leave them."

"You can and must, Quasimodo. A great evil will arrive shortly, you will be one of the first to fall if you stay in Notre Dame. The bells? The monks rang them before you, they will ring them while you are gone. There is nothing holding you here but yourself. "

"If I am to leave Paris, where am I to go? Travel with the Gypsies?"

"Definitely not, no one must find you. You must leave here, Quasimodo. On a peasant farm, a shack or a monestery. Any place where you will not be found."

"I will not hide anymore, nor will I run from my friends and home. Besides.." Quasimodo pointed at his face, "blending in isn't an option. I might be taken for a demon and hanged!"

Solona stared directly into his eyes and remained stone-faced. "You must leave if you to find out answers to the questions you ask yourself, about who you are and why. When things cool down and it is safe to return…"

"Answers? There is nothing I haven't already learned. Frollo killed my parents, I was not claimed by the gypsies. I have no past."

"In that you are wrong Quasimodo, everyone has a past. There is a girl that frequents your thoughts, no? It is possible you have similar beginning, both of you were born of the same tribe, both orphaned under the same circumstances. Both of you share the same destiny."

Quasimodo perked up. "Esmeralda cannot possibly be…"

Solona cut him off, then lifted a black cloth off a small table, revealing a crystal ball that glowed a pale yellow. It bore within it symbols and an image. The picture was hard to describe but as he looked at it he could see that the image was himself ringing Jacqueline, with a dark figure standing behind him, ready to strike with it's sword. The image faded to black and the ball shone no more.

"There is trouble if you stay."

"What will happen if I leave? What is there to be found"

"I am unsure, the spirits have told me where to find answers to questions you have yet to ask. What they are, you must decide for yourself. While you decide, it remains certain you have family, possibly a sibling. The answer lies outside of Paris."

Quasimodo and Solona talked until the candle became a short stub. A sibling? He had never thought of the possibility. True, most families in Court of Miracles had many children, as many as seven. Yet somehow Quasimodo separated himself from this, not ever thinking of the possibility he was part of a family. It was not possible for him to have siblings, was it? Would they look like him?

On his walk home, Quasimodo's thoughts ran wild. He walked by Kira's home, a candle lit the upstairs window. It was possible she was still awake, with her mother and father. Her adopted father who loved her as if she was his own. Why hadn't he been so fortunate? Would things had been any different if he had been loved so deeply?

Quasimodo opened the doors to Cathedral, barred them, then disappeared into the darkness of the tower. He was exhausted, the bells needed tending to. He rang them, then fell asleep in his seldom-used bed under the cover Esmeralda had given him.

Back in the Court of Miracles Solona pulled the image out of the glass sleeves and removed the smothered candle. It was cruel to use such trickery to convince Quasimodo to leave, yet there was no other way she knew of. Something was coming, something terrible that would destroy the bellringer. She felt it in her bones, the runes and Tarot agreed. He was in danger.

Clopin walked in as Solona threw the image into the fire.

"What have you done to Quasi, he looked distraught as he left."

"It was not easy, yet the bellringer will be departing before the next new moon."

"A dream, a mere dream and your terrify Quasimodo? Are you sure you interpreted your dream properly?" Solona looked offended.

"I have never been wrong before. I do not look forward to the next two months. Many will die from both sides and with it will come the death of all who worked with Frollo unless something is done. Whether or not Quasimodo is actually in danger from this or something else remains unclear."

"What do you mean? The bellringer is clearly he is capable of defending Sanctuary, his friends and himself. He will fight with the bravery of our toughest men. You may have just sent him into danger!"

"Tell me Clopin, why is this so important to you? Why does his life seem to mean so much more to you than that of one of our own people."

"He _is_ one of our people and you are well aware of that, Solona." Clopin stroked the crystal ball as he spoke. "You believe terrifying the man and using cheap tricks to convince him into leaving will help us?"

"I do not know but I must follow intuition on this, as you trust your visions. Besides, he's been used against us once, it will not happen again" Solona nodded her head slightly, giving finality to their conversation.

Elsa prepared a goose for dinner, whereas Kira baked a quiche and managed to get some carrots that had been held over the winter. The Bourgeois picked up the jewelry box, thrilled with the details, and paid twice what Gabriel had expected. He traced his sweethearts' name with his finger as he read it with confidence. Gabriel could not help but smile as he read it backwards.

That afternoon, Kira ran over the plan in her mind once more. Get up before the first tolling of the bells, be at Notre Dame just as they start to ring. Don't get caught sneaking up into the tower. Beg forgiveness for the sin of being forever curious about everything.

Picking up her flute from the stable floor she dusted it off and put it back on the shelf. She'd not be playing it at night again.

Kira brushed down Danté, who was standing, nearly asleep, in the stable. She was getting fat, probably from lack of exercise, being in the stable nearly a month eating hay. Kira glanced out the window, catching a clear view of Clopin's puppet wagon. There was a large crowd of people around the wagon, must be a favorite story, as not all were young women and children. She watched as a white goat ran off with one of the puppets, the crowd tracking it as it trotted away. She could also see Clopin sticking his head out the side of the wagon, shaking his empty hand in the air.

A few days later, Kira asked her father's permission to leave home early for church, which he unquestioningly granted her permission to do. Perhaps he was too tired to argue the point, or knew that her asking was merely a formality.

Sunday morning Kira made her way to the cathedral, through the dim streets. The mist was just beginning to rise off of the river and blanketed the ground, coming to her waist. It was a long way to walk alone, but Danté had to stay home. While crossing the bridge, the bells began to toll. She was on time, perhaps a bit late. Kira began running toward the old church, nearly out of breath as she arrived at the steps. The doors were open. She reached the stairway and began the long trek upwards.

The stairs were dark and damp. Kira could barely see the steps, had it been fifteen minutes later, she would have been able to see them clearly. Yet then it would have been too late, and whomever it was that rang them would be long gone. With each step Kira dragged her foot upwards along the stone, feeling carefully for its surface. As she climbed higher, the bells got louder. Finally, she had to press her palms to her ears as she continued to climb upward.

Thin ribbons of sunlight rained upon her when she reached the final step. The pealing of the bells resounded in her chest, masking the rapid beating of her heart. Through the dimness of the tower she could discern four bells swinging in their chambers. Their campanologist was out of sight. How to get a better view? Scanning the tower for a way to get farther up, she spotted a steep, rickety staircase.

Careful not to make any noise, Kira ascended the stairs. Of course, the bells would have drowned her out even if she had screamed. Looking upward, she could make out three flights of stairs that trembled with each pealing. Having decided these stairs were sound, Kira focused her attention onto the moving bells, or rather, below them.

Although he was difficult to make out, Kira could see rather clearly that this man was not like others. His forearms were at least twice the size of her fathers', yet he was much shorter. His entire body moved as he danced between each rope, pulling on them, throwing his head back in fits of laughter. Although she strained to see him better, her attempts were futile. Kira leaned up against a beam and watched the man, amazed. He was both agile and fluid in his movements. An increase in sunlight silhouetted his form, barring any chance of seeing him more clearly.

Disappointed, Kira crept back down the stairs, toward the nave. People were filling the pews and kneeling in rows on the floor. Carefully, she melded herself into the crowd, unnoticed, making her way to where father and Elsa awaited her arrival.

Kneeling to father's right, Kira remained motionless, in thought. Could this be the same hunchback she had seen but three days ago in the marketplace with the twisted face and legs? The same man she had spoken to with those beautiful blue eyes and gentle hands? The same man who had that beautiful voice?

Surely, he had to be. Kira had not seen any hump-backed person in Paris before this week, and he had said he'd always lived in Paris. The way he walked through the marketplace, the way he hid himself. This was Claudes' prisoner, the bell ringer of Notre Dame. Thinking about his countenance, she could understand why he was nervous about showing his face. Images of his face flooded her mind, those eyes. They haunted her in the most wonderful way imaginable. She'd never seen such beautiful, soulful, eyes.

Father set his hand on Kira's shoulder, he must have become aware of his daughter's daydreaming. The Archdeacon began the sermon and Kira focused her eyes blankly toward the alter, meanwhile thinking of the bell ringer. Up and down, up and down. New members were welcomed into the church, apparently this was the Sunday for first communion, one of them a gypsy who hung off the arm of a golden-haired man. She trotted up the aisle. The man crept out the side and to the back of the church. Why did there have to be so many?

Outside in the Parvis Notre Dame, a small gathering of heavily armed men stood inside the puppet wagon of Clopin Trouillifou. Two with weapons, two with wits, two with speed, two trained for war and one with immense strength. Their number was three. Clopin Troullifou, Phoebus de Chateaupers and Quasimodo the bellringer. The masses were within the walls of Notre Dame, thus the men could converse in relative privacy. Clopin was the first to speak.

"I'm not doubting either of you, I saw it to. But it remains that the cards showed a return of treachery and murder to the city. Another struggle between my people and the Gadje." Clopin argued to Phoebus. "Has there been anything peculiar occurring at the Palais du Justice?"

Phoebus stood erect with his hands at his sides in dominant military fashion. "I've not seen anything, Clopin. The dungeons have been emptied, the slaves released, the torture chamber silent." Phoebus paused briefly, looking out the window toward the Palais, his responsibility until a new Minister of Justice was appointed by the king. Quasimodo watched with a keen eye as Phoebus described the Palais du Justice and it's horrors in a seemingly indifferent manner. Phoebus continued. "The new Minister should be here by August, it is hoped that he shall not be as demented as the last."

Clopin paced the inside of the caravan, his fingers knitting his thick eyebrows. "Something is going to happen, I can feel it, I know it. There is nothing to do except wait for it. Quasi, you're in your tower most times, have you seen anything?

Quasi looked at Clopin briefly, shifted his gaze slightly toward the south corner of the square, then back to Clopins' eyes. "Travelers, families returning to the city and rebuilding their homes. Nothing of importance." Clopin smiled.

"We'll see what we can for you." Phoebus raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak when Clopins' glance indicated he remain quiet.

Quasimodo continued. "Whatever is to happen, sanctuary will be maintained."

"…and the location of the Court will remain secret. Quasi, I trust you to guide any of my people home should they become trapped within Notre Dame. That includes you. You are always welcome among my people."

"How are we to know this corruption will begin with the new Minister of Justice?" Phoebus interjected. "Why are you so sure it will be a relative of Frollo? Frollo is dead, we all know it. As well, Frollo's parents died of plague, his brother is a fool and he has no son." Phoebus paused. "That is, unless Quasimodo is plotting against us."

Two piercing glances shot at Phoebus. "It's not funny and this is no laughing matter" Clopin spoke. "We must keep a vigilant eye, watch over all our people. The city, the court and sanctuary. Solona had a vision, she is rarely mistaken in her interpretations and never wrong in her predictions."

Quasimodo nodded in agreement, covered himself under a sheet of blue, then left the caravan to tend to the bells. Clopin and Phoebus watched as he nimbly scaled the side of the building and disappeared into the belltower.

Clopin stepped back into the caravan, away from the window and began to speak in a softer tone. "After spending all that time lost in a world of stone, prayer and learning it appears that Quasimodo is becoming more aware in the ways of the world."

"Clopin?"

Clopin smiled. "I'll think of something. In the meantime, you'd best be getting back to your post. The people will be leaving mass soon, and it would be best they not see you with the likes of myself."

"Well the, good day to you Clopin. I will be sure to keep a lookout."

Phoebus stepped out of the caravan, mounted Achilles and rode toward the Palais of Justice

The sermon continued. Kira's mind continued to wander. The bell ringer had to be down here somewhere, or maybe it was time to ring the noon bells and he was back in the tower. It had to have been at least three hours. Could he do that? Ring the bells if the parish was still in sermon? What were the bells made of? How did they get them up there? How could he get four of them to ring at the same time and make actual music single-handedly? What if bells from all three towers needed to be rung at the same time, or did that ever happen? Why couldn't that monk play the organ properly? When was the last time it had been tuned? It really did sound terrible. Maybe a cat was dying inside of it and no one had thought to remove it. Kira corrected her thoughts. She was in church, shouldn't be thinking such things. But would this sermon ever end? She couldn't even hear what was being said, at least clearly.

Kira's eyes began to drift over the crowd. Father would not notice, so she risked nothing in doing so. Lost souls stood among the living, praying next to them. The wealthy people of Paris sat near the front, and near the inner aisles. Those with less money, such as her, sat near the edges. The poorest of all knelt in the outside aisles. Spirits stood everywhere. She had no idea where the bellringer would be. Closest to the bell tower, the back row. Kira glanced among the peasants. No, he would not be there, he was too self-conscious.

Finally, after asking herself many questions and contemplating the meaning of life, the Archdeacon disappeared and sermon was finally over. As the wealthy passed through the aisle before her, the bells began to toll, the same tune but more joyful than usual.

Standing there, Kira watched as the people passed by. Her Sunday best was probably what they gave to their servants to wash the floors with. Some of them looked at her with contempt as they passed, rising their noses just a little higher. She hoped to herself that it was raining outside, so that many of them would drown. Kira quickly corrected her thought. What a nasty thing to think while in church.

Father finally nudged Kira to get out of the aisle it was their turn to leave. As father and Elsa filed out of Notre Dame she listened to the bells intently. Kira watched as he and Elsa disappeared into the crowd of people leaving the Cathedral. While she had grown up, they had both grown so old.

"They ring beautifully." Kira mentioned to Andry, who was passing through with Diane and his two children.

"'Tis Quasimodo." Andry huffed.

Of course it is, thought Kira. The Archdeacon mentioned it at the beginning of mass. Last week was Easter.

Andry must have seen the puzzled look on her face. "No, Kira." He shook his hands in front of his chest. "The bells. It's Quasimodo."

Kira stared at him blankly. " I know it's Quasimodo Sunday, but how..."

Andry laughed. "Kira, child. You don't understand. Quasimodo rings the bells."


	6. Part 5

**PART 5**

The carriage wheel was heavy, yet moved smoothly over the cobbles as she rolled it toward the dilapidated cart. The wheel had been repaired that morning by one of her father's old friends. The work was sturdy enough, but looked horrible. Where the stone had gouged out the wood was still clearly visible. Kira inspected his handiwork, running her fingers over each ripple. A sturdier job could not have been done.

Sliding the wheel onto the rusted hub she scanned the marketplace. He would be out there sometime and Kira would meet up with him. Kira only had the wheel to repair and to have Danté and Rose's shoes reset. That wouldn't take long. She had to know this man, this "Quasimodo". Such a cruel name to give a child.

Having secured the wheel, she carefully maneuvered the cart back into it's corner, Rose watching her every move. Rose must have known she'd be pulling it again this afternoon. Father was leaving to visit Andry to pick up flour, wood and some sort of packet from Diane. Kira chuckled. Father was always going to the mill.

"Kira" Elsa called from the kitchen.

"Coming" She stumbled over her own feet as the wood she was standing on began to slide out from beneath her.

Elsa pulled her into the small kitchen.

"Would you mind running out to the mill this afternoon?"

"Why?"

"Kira. I don't want to worry you, but you must go because your father can't."

"I don't understand… why…?"

"Every week your father goes out to the mill for flour and wood. That's an excuse. The packet from my sister? It's medicine. For your father." She nodded.

"What do I have to do?"

"Leave after the noon bells, take the west road, turn left at the big oak tree. From there you're be able to figure it out."

There was Kiras' afternoon. Throwing a rope onto Rose and Danté, she led them out of the small stable and toward the horseshoer. Clopin stood in his puppet wagon, surrounded by children and a few young women. A typical morning in Paris.

Tying Rose to the post she mentioned to Jehan what father wished to be done. If only her orders would be followed, or rather the orders of her father. The only reason they even considered her words was her father. This was due to him being friends with most of the locals. Since he sent her due to his health, they must have felt it necessary.

Kira patted Danté's neck and ruffled her red mane. Another horse appeared beside her, white and much taller than Danté. The horse stood as if a statue, in full tack.

"Achilles, stay."

The man walked to the shoer, leaving his horse untied. The horse did not move.

Kira's eyes led her back out to the square, scanning the variable crowd for one blue-cloaked figure. The puppet wagon was deserted. Her scan ended at one of the cathedral doors, where the bellringer emerged with Clopin, who wore the blue cloak. Odd.

She stared at the hunchbacked bellringer as he and Clopin walked toward the puppet wagon. Clopin slipped inside, passing the cloak back to the hunchback. He quickly threw it onto himself, exchanged greetings with Clopin and began to walk through the market, a small basket in hand.

Only when the shoer took Danté's reins from her hands did Kira realize she was once again losing her focus. She watched as her little red horse was led to the back of the lean-to. Rose stood further down, dozing.

Her eyes again wandered to the square. There he was. Quasimodo. She smiled at the thought of his name, for she knew what it meant. What was funny was whether or not he himself knew. Kira watched the man, mesmerized. "Who are you, Quasimodo?"

The white horse nickered. The man approached.

"What is it, 'ol boy. See someone you know?" The white horse nodded his head, the golden-haired man looked into the square. Kira followed his line of vision to the bellringer, whose name she had such trouble saying. The man smiled, he must have known him.

He patted his horse. "Good to see Quasi of that tower of his, isn't it Achilles"

The man looked at the girl, her horse, then the girl again. His expression was kind, as if he wanted to say something. He was almost laughing, the corners of his mouth fighting to remain straight-faced. Kira stared at him blankly. Was this man a lunatic? He began to speak.

"New to Paris, I see." Leaning with one arm on his horse, he motioned with his gloved hand toward the square. "Seems that you have yet to meet our Quasi."

"I'm not that new and yes, I've met the bellringer. Well… once. Briefly." Kira watched the square as she spoke, following the man's path.

"Then you haven't really met him. You should." The man scratched his horse's back as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the girls' every move. Kira turned to face him.

"Why?"

"I see the way you're watching him so closely." The blonde man let the smile emerge, he really wasn't as dumb as he looked.

At that moment Jehan stepped up and handed Danté's reins to Kira. The blonde man did not have to put much effort into convincing Kira. She hopped onto Danté, then reached down to untie Rose. The blonde man set the rope into Kira's hand, smiled then led his horse in to be shod. Quasimodo was beginning to approach the shop. If she hurried, she would be able to meet up with him.

Throwing the horses into the stable, Kira dusted of her skirts. She scrambled around madly for something to make it appear as if she'd been there all morning. She reached into her pocket & found one of her carving knives, definitely not; there had to be something other than that. There wasn't. Kira's violin was in the loft, and she was not going to touch the flute. For lack of anything else, she seized a broom and began to sweep the dust out of the stable.

As the bellringer came into view, Kira began to sweep closer to the door and gather the dust in a pile. Luckily, the floor was actually quite clean to begin with. He stood only a few feet away when she stopped sweeping. Looking up at him, she realized his face was fully exposed. In a brief instant, her eyes scanned his entire body from his crooked legs to his hunchback and nearly hidden left eye. Such a strange looking man he was.

Leaning the broom against the wall, she smiled at him.

"Kira?"

"Monsieur Bellringer" Kira nodded, still smiling.

"My name is Quasimodo." The man smiled as he spoke. So he didn't mind his name.

"And my name is not Kira, its Carmen." His eyes lit up.

"Sweet song…" The way he said it made her heart palpitate.

"Yes." Kira nodded.

He traced the lines on his palm with one of his large fingers, watching it's movement, speaking something under his breath, not meaning her to hear. The corners of Kira's lips curled into a nervous smile. He knew. Kira watched him as he stood before her. The blonde man was right, she really didn't know him. Kira could feel him watching her every move intently, as she remained silent. Oh! How she wanted to know him! When or how was the question. Taking a step away from the stable toward him, she nearly tripped on a piece of wood. That was it!

"I'll be leaving in the cart for the mill soon and could use some company…" His head lifted as she spoke. "Come with me?"

"What?"

"I'm going to the Mill this afternoon and need company. It's quite far. Will you come along?"

"The bells." He motioned toward Notre Dame with his large hand. "I… I… I can't."

"I will wait for you. Please? It may not be safe for me to travel alone."

The bellringer smiled and nodded. Hopefully Elsa wouldn't mind, of course, there was little she could say. She was not there to say no. As for being in the company of a man? Quasimodo was a member of the church, not exactly dangerous. Kira felt safe with him, and her instincts had yet to lead her astray. Those eyes could not lie. Then again, she really didn't know what she was getting herself into. Kira only knew what she had heard about him, which wasn't much.

"Meet me at the bridge after tending the bells."

He gave a quick smile, then disappeared in the direction of the cathedral. It was nearly noon.

Kira sat in the stable listening for the bells, picturing Quasimodo silhouetted by the early morning light, as she had seen last Sunday. She wondered if he knew she was watching him that morning, or even looking for him in the marketplace. Did he know she scanned the edifice of Notre Dame each morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of him?

The bells began to toll. He had agreed awfully quick to come with her, a woman he didn't know to a place he'd probably never been. Then again, maybe he wanted to get out of the city and was willing to grab any opportunity that came along. No, it had to be something else; something simpler. Kira thought of the blonde man with the white horse, who referred to him as "our Quasi" only moments before. It couldn't be, could it?

Discounting the idea, Kira threw a wineskin and some bread under the seat of the cart.

Leading Rose in front of the house, Kira looked up to the loft of her narrow home. The window shutters were barely open and she could not see father. As the last peal sounded, Elsa rushed out of the kitchen to send her off. Elsa told her the directions once more and what she was supposed to pick up.

"I'll be fine, Elsa. Don't worry. Now I really should go now if I'm to be back for dinner."

"I suppose you're right. Here's some wine if you get thirsty and a basket of rolls. Oh and don't forget these!" Elsa dropped a bundle of cakes into Kira's hands. Dear Elsa, as close to being a mother as she could ever be.

As Rose began to trot through the square Kira looked toward Notre Dame's towers. They were so high, would he be there? She couldn't wait long.

As she approached the bridge, a blue-clad figure came into view, leaning on the side of the bridge and watching the Seine. Quasimodo. Kira whistled, his attention remained on the water. She stopped the cart directly behind him and he turned around.

"Carmen. I thought we were…"

"Walking? No. It's pretty far." Quasimodo looked at the horse and cart nervously. "Rose will get us there and back in lots of time." He looked skeptical. "She's been pulling this cart for years, nothing will happen."

Kira could see Quasimodo's line of vision meet the wheel.

"It's safe." Reaching out, she took his hand into her own and guided him into the cart. As he stepped inside she realized how small her own hand was compared to his, as well as how her calluses slid on his own. Kira watched as he gently made himself comfortable on the wooden seat, adjusting his shirt. One hand on the side of the cart, the other on the edge of the seat, his expression told her he was ready. Hardly containing herself, Kira tapped the reins over Roses' back. She was safe with him.

The cart bounced along the rutted dirt and stone road, Rose choosing her footing with care. There was no need to hurry, the mill was not far off and she had the rest of the day. Taking a sideways glance at her companion it became apparent that he was engrossed in his surroundings. Had he never been out of the city before? The way he watched as the trees and fields passed by led me to believe so. They really were not that far out of Paris, for the twin towers of Notre Dame remained within view.

Kira let the reins slack, tying then to the front of the cart, Rose had never been one to run away.

After pushing the stray tendrils of black hair behind her ears, Kira let a few words pass her lips. "See something interesting?"

"Oh.." She must have startled him. "It's more beautiful than I ever imagined. Are those cattle? They look so, so _peaceful_." Kira followed his line of vision to the edge of a forest; he turned, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm surrounded by such beauty!"

As they approached the oak tree, Kira tried to remember which way Elsa had told her to turn but couldn't; her memory was failing her. Rose turned left. The trail was less worn, but Rose would know for sure. Loosely holding the reins Kira looked over to her companion.

"Good thing the horse knows where we're going, eh Quasimodo?" He appeared worried until she began to laugh.

"So this is where the mill is. Esmeralda has mentioned it before, but I've never seen it this close."

"We'll be there shortly." He said nothing, but smiled yet again as he continued to drink in his surroundings. "You'll just love my aunt, Diane; I have no doubt that she'll like you." A spark lit in his eyes.

"The miller's wife is your aunt? How could that be?"

"What do you mean, Quasimodo?" Kira picked up the reins, adjusting them in her hands.

"Quasi."

She bit her lower lip lightly. "Sorry"

"Clopin has mentioned that you're one of his tribe."

For a brief moment Kira just stared at him in disbelief. Had he just said what she heard him say? He must have, for she saw things, not imagined them. She finally looked ahead where the mill was coming into clear view.

"Look, Quasi. There it is." Kira nodded toward the tower of the mill, four monstrous blades of wood slowly turning.

As they got closer to the mill, she caught sight of Diane, who was busy hoeing one of the many small gardens surrounding the house. Kira's eyes led her to the windmill itself. It was working, but remained, to a large degree, a frame of wood and iron. The house, however, looked finished as thin grey tendril of smoke rose from the chimney. Two small children ran about the yard, chasing a young pup, which bounded about merrily.

Quasimodo stared at the mill, his large eyes focused high and neck craned to catch sight of the top of the blades as they turned. Watching the way he held himself, it dawned on Kira that he couldn't throw his head back as easily as she could.

As the cart got closer, the puppy began to bark wildly. It then left the children, ran under Diane's skirt and down the dirt path. Diane began to shout at the puppy, then the eldest of her children, who ran after it. Quasimodo shot Kira a nervous glance, she couldn't help but laugh.

As soon as Diane caught sight of Rose, her scowl melted away into a warm smile.

"Carmen! So nice to see you again!" Diane ran toward the cart, dropping the hoe onto the damp grass. "And who is that you have…" She stopped speaking as soon as they came into view.

"Halt" Rose slowed to a stop beside one of the gardens.

"Wasn't expecting you today. Well, now that you're here, you may as well come in. You can't just bring a guest and expect to leave without tea, Carmen." Her words were sharp, yet meant in kindness. Having grown up with Elsa as a mother, Kira was used to such words.

In the time it took for Quasimodo and Carmen to put Rose in the barn, Diane had laid tea, biscuits and cakes out on the table. She quickly ushered them to the large rough-hewn table, where they sat directly across from each other, Quasi's back to the wall. Diane gently pushed a dish of plum tarts before the bellringer, who didn't seem to notice, but watched as a large pot boiled on the hearth.

Suddenly, Quasi jumped back slightly, his eyes wide open.

"Poilou!" The boy dashed under the table, reappearing with the puppy in his arms. Quasi seemed relieved that the attacker was merely a pup.

"Mommy" a the boy tugged at his mothers' skirt and pointed to Quasimodo, the puppy squirming in his other arm. "Who is that man."

"He's the bellringer of Notre Dame, darling. Now go outside and play"

As the boy walked toward the door his eyes remained fixed on Quasimodo. Quasimodo smiled. The boy smiled. Then he ran outside and shouted to the other child "See! I told you!"

"Why all of this?" Carmen whispered to Diane.

"Why, it's not every day the hero of Paris comes to our mill. Here you are, young man" Diane poured a cup of tea for Quasi and smiled at him.

"Merci"

Carmen sat there for a moment, looked at Quasimodo, looked at Diane, then Quasimodo again.

"I wouldn't say 'hero', madam."

"Oh don't you just love that, he's so modest" Diane chuckled as she walked past Carmen, returned the kettle to the fire and sat down at the table. She touched Carmen's arm, nodded toward Quasimodo, who sat across from her at the table and began to speak. "You know, just three months ago, he saved the entire city from burning to the ground, defeated our oppressor single-handedly, saved the life of a gypsy girl…"

"Wait a moment. Quasimodo, you did all those things?"

His face reddened and he wrung his hands.

Carmen was right, Diane liked Quasi; there was no mistaking it. She went to every length to ensure his comfort. The children loved him, the puppy wanted nothing but to lay by his feet, giving his toes the occasional lick. The time went by all to quickly. Soon, it was nearly time for the ringer to return to his bells.

Placing the packet with father's medicine under the seat, Carmen removed the packet of uneaten food from Elsa. She would not be eating it, nor what she had packed. Carmen was nearly certain that Quasi could make more use of it than she could.

Carmen bid Diane goodbye with a warm hug. She swore she could feel her ribs cracking as Diane gave her one last squeeze. As she lessened her grip, she whispered into Carmen's ear.

"If there's anything I've learned in my thirty five years, it's about matters of the heart."

"Pardon?"

Diane leaned in a little closer. "He likes you, my dear."

Carmen began the start of a laugh; Diane held her finger between their faces. "He's a good man, Carmen. A very good man. You're a nice girl. It's only a matter of time for the pair of ye."

Leaving Diane to bid Quasi goodbye, Carmen hitched Rose to the cart and began petting her velvet nose. While Quasi was talking with Diane, she stepped into the cart, arranging the bag of flour and bits of wood piled behind her head. A moment later Quasi had seated himself in the cart and they were on their way home.

The ride back was far more interesting than the ride out. Having heard about the siege of the Cathedral firsthand, Carmen was amazed at Quasi's strength and bravery. Neither Diane nor Quasi mentioned his past, but of course, she already knew, to some degree, how he'd lived before that time, due to the song she had heard in early January. This would have been close to when this had happened.

Rose champed at the bit to get home sooner. Pulling the reins slightly, Carmen turned to face Quasi. A piece of wood must have fallen from the back of the cart, as a small piece lay in his hand with a glint of silver. He smiled at her. Carmen liked silence, it gave her time to think. This silence was agonizing.

"So why did you finally leave the belltower?"

Quasi's eyes sparkled slightly. "Oh no, Carmen. It's your turn." The corners of his mouth curled up, baring his jagged white teeth. He laughed under his breath.

She couldn't help but smile as well. "What is it you would like to know?"

There was a pause. "By what means does a young gypsy woman, such as yourself, grow up away from her family, knowing nothing of her people and customs?"

His question wrenched her heart. She turned toward him, her eyes locking into his. Firmly, she repeated his question. "By what means does a young gypsy _man_, such as yourself, grow up away from _his_ family, knowing nothing of _his_ people and customs?"

Quasi backed off a bit. The guilt struck her almost instantaneously. Another pause.

"Perhaps you have a question that I can answer?" Carmen gave a nervous half smile.

Quasi nodded "It would be best, I suppose." Setting his finger to his chin he thought for a brief moment, then pulled his finger away as his lips parted. "Do remember how you came to live with the carriage maker?"

"For the most part, yes." She laughed. "That was an easy one Quasi."

"Then how did you come to live there?"

Carmen proceeded to tell him what happened that night as the scene repeated itself, a silent pantomime, acting itself out in her mind as she stared off into the distance. She mentioned no names, but through the corner of her eye, saw Quasi wince ever so slightly when she mentioned the three-cornered hat with the flowing tassel. Carmen finished her tale while crossing the bridge.

Rose fought to go straight home, yet stood near Notre Dame as Carmen's passenger stepped out and around the back of the cart carrying the packet Carmen had given him. He stood before her, looking up at her face. His mouth opened, his hand lifted near his lips, yet he said nothing. His eyes closed and he shook his head slightly. Resuming his gaze, he reached his hand toward her face. Before he could pull his hand away Carmen guided it to her cheek with her own. Quasi's face faded into a shade that rivaled that of his hair.

"I will see you tomorrow at noon, Quasi?" He nodded shyly, then scooted off into the Cathedral to tend to his bells.

Approaching the house Carmen watched the upstairs window. The shutters remained closed. Elsa was nowhere to be seen. Letting Rose go, she vaulted out of the cart with father's medicine in hand. Rose would wait in the barn for her. Something wasn't right.

Carmen stepped into the kitchen to meet with Elsa, hunched over the table. Three pots boiled on the hearth, the sharp scent of onions striking her nose, causing her eyes to water profusely.

"Kira. Glad you're back.. Yes, just set that down over there. Would you mind chopping these while I go upstairs for a moment? Thanks."

Carmen stood there dumbfounded as Elsa set more onions on the table, handed her a knife and disappeared up the ladder with soup and blankets in what seemed one motion. Carmen chopped as softly as possible, as to hear the goings on upstairs. Coughing, deep coughs. Fluid. It was in his lungs. She could hear Elsa's voice, soft and low.

The sounds of Father and Elsa were suddenly drowned out by the tolling of the bells. Such a beautiful melody, a wasted melody. Had it been any other day, any other time she would have joined in his happiness. Carmen shuddered slightly. She didn't care for her situation a single bit, she felt sick herself. It was simply wrong, no other word could describe her feelings. At that moment tears began to fall with the water of the onions, quickly transforming a trickle to a stream.

Guiding the chopped onions into the soup kettle with the knife she stared into the broth as it boiled, whisping the steam away with the cutting board. Little squares of onion floated in the golden broth. The occasional piece of salt pork was churned toward the top with the boiling soup. Salt pork too. Horrid stuff.

Carmen set the lid onto the boiling pot, leaving room for the steam to escape. Rose needed tending to.

Rose was eating hay, Danté stood in her stall. In a matter of moments Rose joined her, and the cart was quickly unloaded and tipped back. Having piled the wood, she picked up the sack of flour and laid it with last weeks. There was no bread and Elsa was busy. Scooping a cup of starter out of the crock, Carmen began the task herself.

Time dragged, Elsa sent her out of the house after the bread was set to rise. Danté in hand Carmen sauntered through the streets, alone with her thoughts. Danté grazed by the river while she sat by her, watching the river flow. Father was getting worse, the time was approaching where he would not recover. Each time he came ill caused Elsa to lose health. There was little she could do to help either of them. She cooked, she cleaned, she made music; there was nothing else she could do.

That night Carmen slept in the kitchen near the stove. Fathers coughing kept her awake throughout most of the night. Carmen listened intently as midnight came and went. Coughing and Elsa's footsteps. She stared up at the streams of candlelight falling downward between the floorboards, pierced by Elsa's shadow as she moved about the room.

Three o'clock; the bells shook Carmen out of her daze, no beams of light shone down upon her. Staring around the room Carmen realized she was not alone. Someone was in the room with her, yet she could not open her mouth to ask whom. She felt for her dagger, then remembered it was in the stable.

The figure came into view. Carmen slid herself toward the wall as silently as possible as not to be seen or heard. She backed into a sharp corner. Reaching around she felt the crates' contents and grasped a large piece of wood, heaping it with the sticky powder that smothered it. As the tall figure walked toward the ladder she threw the mass at it. The figure vanished. Moments later Carmen was rekindling the fire that until now had almost entirely died away.

The bells finished tolling, it was noon. Elsa had gone to fetch the healer, as father had not improved. Carmen sat near fathers side, wiping his face with a wet cloth. He was sweating. Father's age was unbeknownst to her, yet she was sure he was old. Carmen continued to wipe his face with water, which was getting warm.

The cool water was near the window, which was open due to the warm weather. While rinsing out the cloth she looked across the square. Quasi would be waiting for her in the tower; father needed her more. Carmen stifled her tears. Quasi would have to wait.

Carmen remained by his side, throughout the afternoon waiting for Elsa to return. Every few minutes she would walk toward the window to rinse the cloth. Father set down his teacup, then nodded toward the table by the window. Carmen scooped the damp cloth into her palm. Father set one hand on the cloth, weakly motioning toward the bow with the other. She let go of the cloth.

While fumbling about in the drawer for a block of rosin, Carmen's gaze drifted downward. Quasimodo was approaching the door. She called out to him, yet he didn't seem to notice. He stood there for several minutes as she shouted. She watched as he peered in through the open door, shrugged his shoulders and began to walk away. Couldn't he hear her?

"Quasi! I'm up here!" He didn't bat an eye. He never looked behind as he walked away. He ignored her. "Quasi! Don't go! Please wait!"

Quasi was gone.

Having slathered the bow, Carmen set the violin on her shoulder, resting her chin upon it's worn surface. She softly drew the bow along the strings as her calloused fingers coursed over the neck. "You have a beau?" Her father whispered. "Who is he?" Gabriel smiled, then drifted off to sleep. She continued to play.

The healer came, bled Gabriel, then put him to rest. Later that evening, Elsa mentioned pork had been dropped, salt littered the floor and that Carmen ought to have been more careful not to spill.

The next morning father was feeling better. Elsa swore that it was the healer; father swore it was the music that made him better. Carmen's personal opinion was that father pulled himself out of bed out of fear he would be bled again, and next time not be so lucky to survive. She knew not to argue.

Carmen spent the day in the shop, finishing the carriage which father and her had been building over the last three weeks. The entire carriage was painted black, the carved portions showing brilliantly. The doors were elaborately decorated with trailing roses and a carriage pulled by four dock-tailed horses. Below the horses and joining the wreath of roses were two bells tied with a thin ribbon that wrapped in amongst the wooden foliage. It had turned out much better than she thought it would. Running her fingers over the delicately carved horses, she realized her abilities had come far. The bells, she had put extra care into the bells. Her thoughts began to drift to Quasimodo. She missed him so. Missed him? She barely knew him. Is it possible to miss someone you barely know?

Carmen deliberated. She missed her mother, sister and especially her baby brother. He'd only been around a month before they were separated, herself only four. Mama said he would be tall; he had blue eyes and black hair. Technically, she never knew him. Her sister? She barely remembered her face and would in all probability not recognize her now had she survived. Calliope wanted to become a dancer, marry a Trouillifou and go to Germania. Mama? She wanted the best for her family. They were gone, yet their dreams remained a part of her, so they were not lost.

As for Quasi? He wasn't beautiful, nor would he ever be, but there was something else there that she liked. His mannerisms told Carmen more than words ever could. His nervousness, hesitations, his gentle nature, the way he hid himself when inside he knew he'd been accepted endeared him to her. Here was a man capable of thought, with musical talent and _manners_. His heroics during the siege of Notre Dame did not surprise her much; Quasimodo was a fascinating person capable of more than perhaps even he was aware. Miss him? She hardly knew him. While it remained possible, Carmen came to the conclusion it was not at all sensible.

The following day Gabriel, Elsa and Carmen sat at the table, Elsa knitting yet another blanket, half asleep. Carmen watched as her father gazed out the door toward the square, his hand absently stirring his broth with a chunk of bread. He lifted his hand to speak, only a small piece remained in his hand.

"Has Marcelle stopped by to pick up his harness yet?"

"No, not yet, father. He'll be by this afternoon."

"What of those doors, the one's for La Fleure's chaise? Have we gotten around to them yet, my dear?"

"I've fixed the break in the one, they just need to be sanded off. I'll get on that soon."

"What about the…?"

"The carriage is ready to go, father. Finished it yesterday."

Father nodded his approval, sliced a new piece of bread and resumed stirring his broth.

Carmen thought back. She had not remembered seeing a harness in the barn, other than the old one used on Rose, unless… She recalled having trouble tipping the cart back, it likely sat underneath.

The doors were finished in moments and soon were re-attached. Such an impractical vehicle, especially when driven by highly bred horses that spooked at nothing. Father'd only been working on carriages in Paris for a few months, yet had repaired it twice before now.

The harness was, indeed under the cart and covered in dust, which wiped away easily. Hanging it on one of the meat-hooks for Marcelle, Carmen peered into the cart. What a mess of blankets. She tossed them into the corner; more wash. In a few moments, the stalls were mucked, horses fed and the stable swept clean.

The week's wash lay next to the stable door, Elsa having left it there after breakfast with the scrub board and bar of soap. Carmen took the hint. The blankets that lay in the corner also needed a good wash, as the smelled horrible and were covered in grime. Firmly grasping the corner of the roughly woven cover she whipped it out, stirring up a great cloud of dust. Chaff flew into the air while she stood vigorously shaking it outside the door. Stomping it into the bag, another object drew her attention. A dark blue mass of fabric lay in the corner, littered with stable dust.

Immediately, Carmen became aware what this was and whom it belonged to. It smelled as horrible as the blanket. Though soiled, the fabric was very soft and of good quality. Running her fingers over the cloth, she decided that a washing would be welcomed by it's owner.

She crept into Danté's stall with the cloak, as not to be seen, and put it on. The sleeves were huge, as was the rest of it. The hood hid her face completely. It must have been made specifically for Quasi, as a mound of extra fabric lay on her shoulders, which would accommodate his shape perfectly. Carmen wrapped it around herself as tight as possible, as if embracing Quasi himself. She froze. This wasn't right. Carmen quickly removed the cloak and folded it up in her arms. He would be missing it, only once had she seen him without it, which was two days ago and she had not seen him since. Then again, maybe this was the reason.

Throwing the bag of wash onto Danté, Carmen walked to the river. Danté stood beside her as she washed, nibbling the fresh grass. Carmen began with the filthiest blanket, which was from the cart, working up to the cleaner items requiring less strength.

Having washed the cloak she set it out to dry with the rest of the laundry and began baking the days' bread, which was ready for the oven, and dinner. Elsa was gone, likely to market, father in the shop talking with Marcelle and La Fleure, who had come at the same time to retrieve their goods. Sweeping the floor was her last task. After washing her hands free of bread dough and removing her whitened apron, Carmen herself was free.

Quasi's cloak lay soft against the roughness of her palm. It's shade had changed from dark blue to a more royal blue. It also smelled much better. Carmen folded it up carefully, avoiding any creases, then made her way to Notre Dame, cloak in-hand. As to avoid any suspicion from Elsa, she placed a sou into her pocket as an alibi.

Walking through the square she was lucky enough not to come across Elsa. Clopin, however watched intently from his puppet wagon as she slipped trough the crowd. Carmen could feel his eyes tracing her every move. If she was one of his tribe, why would he not just approach her? Before setting her foot onto the first step of Notre Dame, Carmen returned his stare. Clopin smiled and laughed, his puppet waved it's hands at her. Apparently having lost interest, he turned to his puppet and began talking with it, pointing to the North tower. Carmen climbed up the steps, shaking her head. How could someone so intelligent come across as such an _idiot_?

The church was nearly empty, only a few monks wandered the cloisters. The whispered prayers of the parish hummed through the rainbow-walled belly of the church. Standing within the circle of colour shining down from the rose window, Carmen clutched the cloak to her chest with her left arm. She dropped the sou into the bed for foundlings. Running her hands over the wooden cradle she began to wonder how many children had suffered splinters in unfortunate places before it had worn smooth.

Backing away from the cradle she backed into someone and met with the eyes of an old monk. His face held an expression of peace and calmness. Carmen lowered her head to him, and revealed the neatly folded cloak. The monk nodded softly and began to walk away, motioning for her to follow.

The monk led her up a flight of spiral stairs, to a narrow passageway that bridged the two towers, columns on either side. Two columns were broken, one heavily cracked. This must have been where Quasi was chained back in January. Carmen shuddered slightly; Quasimodo _broke_ them. The strength required to even crack one would be formidable, Danté would be incapable of such a feat.

The monk held his hand out to her, then made his way into the North tower, while she stood between the columns amongst four gargoyles. Only one sat watching the city in a regal position. The other three seemed to be fighting. Carmen had never seen gargoyles this close before, yet knew they weren't typically made in such positions. Whomever had carved them had a sense of humor. Making a fist, she knocked on the fattest one's head. Stone. The stories they could tell if they were alive.

Everything seemed so small from this height; Clopin's brightly-coloured puppet wagon appeared as a toy. Straining her eyes, she could not make out her home among the buildings. The air was slightly cooler, as well; the scents present in the square were absent. Carmen breathed deeply.

Moments later she sensed another approach, yet not the monk. Quasi stood behind her. Carmen turned around, meeting his eyes. The most beautiful shade of blue. The height of the building began to take it's effect on her. Carmen shook her head, breaking eye contact.

Carmen held out the cloak. "I found this in the cart, I believe it's yours. I hope you don't mind, I washed it for you." Her words were rushed, yet his smile told her he understood. He accepted the cloak, then set it on the ledge between the gargoyles. For several moments, they simply watched eachother in silence. Quasimodo smiled. Carmen smiled.

"While you're here, would you like to see the bells?" It was an offer she couldn't refuse; she smiled and nodded.

"I'd love to." Carmen stepped forward lightly, nearly on the bellringers' heels.

"This way." He led her across the narrow walkway to the spire of the cathedral. His steps were light and effortless, whilst Carmen struggled to keep her balance. As she felt herself beginning to lose balance, she grabbed his massive arm. After stopping for a brief moment, Quasi continued to the belltower. Soon, they stood within the spire, gazing upward.

"Is that the only way into here, Quasi?" Quasi smiled, a mischievous, devilish smile. Of course there was an easier way. Quasi pointed upward. Six bells hung above their heads, one of which was wooden.

Next was the south tower, where Big Marie and Jacqueline "lived". Finally, the North tower, where he showed her the last six bells, Gabrielle, Thibauld, Pasquier, Guillaume and two others that she couldn't catch the names of. Carmen thought it best not to ask him to repeat himself, she would not have remembered had he told her anyhow. Besides, she knew she'd be seeing the bells again and come to know them in time.

Finally, Quasi took her to the top of the North tower. She could see for miles; the entire island surrounded them. The mill, the forests and roads were all visible, in miniature. The view was breathtaking.

Quasi then led her back down through a set of steps to what must be his living quarters. They were simple yet beautiful. Mobiles of coloured glass hung from the beams, the occasional broken statue and large pieces of wood formed rooms and tables. Buckets of water sat in a row next to the wall, earthenware dishes sat piled neatly on a plain shelf with a small collection of baskets. One lay covered with a checked cloth next to a corked bottle. Set on top of a large stone sat a metal bin, ingeniously transformed into a small fireplace. A copper kettle spat boiling water onto the hot coals, causing them to hiss and spit.

Quasi soon cleared a spot on a large table supported by thick pieces of wood. He quickly hung the blue cloak onto a peg hammered into one of the beams, how it had arrived there remained a mystery to Carmen. Pulling up a second stool, he motioned for her to sit.

A miniature city, inhabited by figures she recognized, lay out before her. The blonde-haired man was there with his white horse, as was Clopin, the baker and blacksmith. Carmen soon recognized father, yet could not find herself. A poorly made figure lay hidden within the model church, not nearly as nice as the others. Gently scooping it into her hand, she soon recognized it as Quasi's self-model. It did not encompass how she saw him. The figure had one eye, little hair and knelt forward on both knuckles as if unable to stand under the weight of it's humped-back. Unlike the other figures, it had no mouth or ears; it was shapeless.

Returning the figure to it's resting place Carmen looked up toward the man who's self model she'd momentarily held. He gently sprinkled tea leaves into the copper pot with his large hands. Carmen stared in wonderment, before her stood a man who was strong, brave and caring. A man whom chance had given a great mind housed within a misshapen body. A man who couldn't see in himself what was so blatantly obvious to herself. Poetry in motion. He was nothing like the figure.

Carmen turned her head toward him as he walked toward the water pail. His movements, so fluid, so smooth. Such beauty. She must have mouthed the words while she thought them, as Quasi's expression suddenly changed from that of relaxation to questioning.

"What did you just say?"

"I didn't realize… I didn't think you could…" Carmen fixed her sight into the depths of his eyes. "You're beautiful"

"But… Look at me!"

"I am."

His eyebrow raised slightly. "Why? Just look at me! You can't possibly believe…" He motioned at different parts of his body with his large hands with jerky motions, following them with his eyes as he did so. His hunched back, crooked legs, distorted face and single good eye.

Halting each of his hands with her own, she clutched as much of each as she could. "Just accept that I do." Quasi seemed to understand, or at least accept, this. He passed her cup of tea in earthenware. Quasi stepped over to the edge of the belltower and looked down into the square, his tea steaming into the cool air.

While deliberating her statement, Carmen found herself walking toward him, then standing next to him overlooking the square. Quasi turned to watch her.

"The world is not as cruel as I once thought it was. I have friends now, whom I never thought I would have." Quasi took a sip of tea, then stared into the cup, looking at his muddied reflection. "You choose to be with me, you came here looking for me."

Quasimodo turned to watch her expression carefully. Carmen nodded, then placed her hands near his face, rolling them over his back while leaning forward. Carmen nestled her head into his short neck, gently kissing his cheek. Quasi shivered, Carmen felt his weight shift. A large warm hand pulled her further into him. He'd understood.

Moments later Carmen & Quasimodo sat in the belltower locked into an embrace, their half-finished cups of tea cooling nearby. Carmen held Quasi's left hand to her heart, their faces close enough where they could see into each others eyes and souls. Quasimodo's right hand stroked Carmen's black hair, which was now beginning to loosen from it's bonds.

After several minutes, Quasimodo looked at Carmen. "The bells need attention. I will ring them for you."

Carmen smiled brightly, yet disappointment crept across her face as he continued. "They're very loud, you should listen outside." He paused briefly. "I don't want to send you away… you're welcome here any time."

"I would love that."

"One more question." Carmen nodded, a twinkle of hope in her eye. Quasi opened his mouth as if to speak, then sighed. He watched he a few moments, then the ladder, then returned his gaze to Carmen.

"I will play them for you."

As she left the Cathedral she felt as if all eyes were on her, that all knew where she had been and why. She had kissed a man who was not her husband. She had no husband. She had kissed that man in the church, a man _of_ the church. An act that she never thought she was capable of.

Carmen only glanced at Clopin's empty puppet wagon as she made her way through the square, and back to her home. There was work to do.


	7. Part 6

**PART 5**

Just outside of Rouen, a man and woman rode toward the city of Paris to tend to work that awaited completion. The man, about forty years, held his wife in his arms. It was because of her he had been able to get the job he sought. It was a job only he could do, as he had been appointed by the previous official.

Durand walked down the main street of the small town. There were few people outside walking about. Three sheep grazed quietly outside the bakery. He stepped inside where a few women haggled over the price of baguettes. The didn't look fresh, as small flakes of crust tumbled from them as the baker held them. The arguing stopped as they noticed the stranger. Durand bought a loaf and walked out.

While crossing the street, he noticed he sheep were now following him. He picked up his pace when he realized the sheep wanted his bread, not watching where he was walking. Durand soon bumped into a drunken soldier, who lay down on the street. The soldier groaned.

"Get up!" Durand kicked the man violently in the ribs. "Get up, I say. Worthless scum. You are the best the Kings army has to show? What a pathetic country this has become."

The drunken man, rose to his feet and stood at attention. "And to whom do I owe the pleasure, Monsieur?" He spoke, sarcastically.

"Luc Durand, Minister of Justice, Paris."

"Aye. That makes you nothing here."

"How dare you speak to a superior you insolent wretch. I shall have you chained in the dungeons for such disloyalty."

"To verify something, Minister of Justice. This is not Paris, this is not even a city. Minister, only the Captain of the Kings guard may give me any orders, I have no reason to even acknowledge you." George drew his sword softly, and pointed it at the neck of Durand. "I suggest ye be leavin' right quick, messieur. Your type ain't welcome round here."

"I will have you in chains, soldier."

"If what you want is a challenge, messiuer, I will have your balls as a purse." George spit on the shoes of the Minister and flashed his sword around some more.

"You wish to die?"

"You would kill me?" George twirled his sword on the end of his finger, tossed it into the air and caught it in the span of a few seconds. Minister Durand stood silent, watching. George held his sword, ready to strike.

Durand nodded his approval and drew his own blade. It was long, cold and decorated with precious stones, much nicer than the plain sword belonging to George. Durand gallantly showed off his weapon with several quick motions. He twirled it around his wrist, over his arm and stuck out in the air with lightening speed. George nodded his head in approval.

Durand smiled, then jabbed his sword forward to impale his opponent. At that same moment, George stepped to the side and bashed in the ministers jaw with an iron fist. The minister fell to the ground, in agony.

"As I said, Minister. Your type is unwelcome here. I suggest you and your men leave town."

Durand crawled off, his jaw sore and his dignity bruised. George walked graciously behind a bush, bent over and heaved up the previous nights meal and drink.

The iron and wood carriage rode noisily through the night, under heavy guard. It would be a long journey through the countryside, there was much to do along the way. Durand kept his run-in with the soldier secret, as one measly soldier in the middle of nowhere would not make a difference to his mission. There were much greater things to accomplish.

The procession stopped at every town along the way, asking about the state of affairs in Paris and what happened in Januervy. The men left the woman and some soldiers outside of town while the rest rode in to gather information. There was nothing but bad news to bring back to the others. Minister Frollo was indeed dead, murdered by the same freak of nature he had saved from death in an act of mercy.

The couple deliberated as what to do. Ruth counted her rosaries and drank tea while in thought. The man was a cripple, he should be easy to dispose of. Once the bellringer was gone, controlling the rest of Paris would be simple. He'd become their hero, to erase him from the city would weaken the populace and allow full control.

* * *

She remained sitting and calmly stirred her tea. It was very simple. Quasimodo would have to die. From that point on she remained in the carriage, thinking of one thing. How to rid the world of one hideous cripple.

"Your right foot goes into the stirrup. The other right. Now, grasp the pommel of the saddle."

"The what?"

"The front of the saddle. Lift yourself up, swing your left leg over then lower yourself down into the saddle."

"Phoebus. I can't reach the pommel."

"Take my hand, then."

"It feels strange."

"You're not scared of heights, are you?" Phoebus chuckled. "Now hold one rein in each hand. Yes, that's right. No, Quasi. You have it backwards. The rein goes between your smallest finger and ring finger, through your fist, then out under your thumb. I'm glad you're learning, Quasi. If we do have to leave Paris, it will be much easier to ride rather than walk. I suppose it would be best to put you on Snowball, since technically he is your horse now…"

"Like this?"

"Exactly, Quasi. You've got it. Just a bit tighter, now."

Phoebus led Achilles around the small field by the river, out of sight from most Parisians. Quasi struggled to hold his balance with each step. Squeezing Achilles for balance, he unwittingly caused the horse to fight to go faster.

"Quasi. Relax, relax. I'm not going to let you fall."

Achilles walked slowly as Quasi leaned into the front of the saddle, holding the reins slack.

"Loose, Quasi, go loose. You're not going to fall." Phoebus looked up at his friend, then his other friend. "You and Achilles should get along fairly well. I just need another horse besides Achilles. Then again, Jiminny and Snowball are still in the stables. You will learn quicker if you ride with someone else. I remember when I was a young lad taking my first ride with my cousin. I was six and was put on a horse named Petit Bleu. He was dappled gray and had a huge belly on him. Never wanted to do anything but eat. Those were the days, Quasi. Just like having wings, I swear…"

Quasimodo didn't pay much attention to Phoebus' rambling. It was a challenge to keep his balance at a walk. Quasi wondered how such a small amount of movement could throw his balance off so easily.

Having ridden for about an hour, Phoebus asked for Quasi to dismount and the two men made their way back to the island, Achilles following behind.

"You really like her, don't you." Phoebus stated; it was not meant as a question.

Quasi said nothing to Phoebus' comment. Indeed, there was nothing he could say. Phoebus continued to chatter.

"Esmeralda never learned to ride a horse and doesn't ever want to. Prefers to keep on the ground." Phoebus looked Quasimodo in the eye. "Are you doing this just for that girl, or…"

"Every man knows how to ride a horse, does he not?"

Phoebus smiled.

"… and I would like very much to ride with her."

After ten days Quasi and Phoebus were riding outside of Paris. Phoebus disliked having another man on his beloved Achilles, yet knew he'd rather Quasimodo ride him out of all the men he knew.

Jiminny and Achilles trotted along merrily down the road, side-by side. Quasimodo was the first to speak.

"Has there been any news to the Palais of Justice?"

"Of the new Minister? Not much, Quasi." There was a long pause. The horses continued to walk on. Quasimodo broke the silence again.

"Have you seen her lately?"

"Not closely, no. I believe she hasn't left her house except for her weekly run to the mill. That horse of hers really goes fast. An arrow is what that horse is, a small red arrow."

"Medicine for her father." Quasi thought. That was what she had gotten while he chatted with Diane.

"Canter?" Asked Phoebus, spurring Jiminny before he finished asking.

Jiminny dug his heels into the road and tore off with Phoebus, Achilles followed, Quasimodo didn't.

Quasimodo sat in the dirt, the breath knocked out of him, wondering what happened for a moment before realizing his mount's heels were turning up sod in a line away from him. Quasimodo got up, dusted himself off. It hurt, yet he'd felt worse. Phoebus would come back. Quasimodo scanned the horizon. Phoebus should come back.

Deciding it was pointless to stand and wait, Quasimodo laid down in the grass and stared up at the clouds. Her eyes were so beautiful. Not as green as Esmeralda's, yet beautiful just the same. Quasi blew a bug off his nose and closed his eyes.

What was it about her he liked? She certainly couldn't dance, she was too shy and far too clumsy. She was pretty, but did not have the stunning beauty of Esmeralda. She carved wood, rode a horse, knew the alphabet and could read a few words. Did those things matter? Not really. They spoke nothing of her personality. There was something else there. She tried to kiss him. Something Esmeralda had done on several occasions, twice publicly, yet as a friend. Carmen had meant it in a different way, hadn't she? Esmeralda pecked him on the cheek quickly and softly, Carmen had snuggled into his shoulder, tried to kiss him and he turned her away. He couldn't even ask her for courtship before sending her away.

Then again, there were rumors the girl was bordering on madness. He'd seen it too with talk of her visions, dreams and tales of seeing people where none existed. She saw nothing at it was, but rather as some sort of convoluted dream.

Quasi was awaken by Phoebus' boot tapping his side.

"He's dead, Jim."

Quasimodo opened his eyes to see Phoebus nearly bursting with laughter. Quasimodo desperately wanted to hit him.

"Walking or riding?" Phoebus offered him Achilles' reins.

"Riding. At a _walk_."

Phoebus hopped onto Jiminny, Quasi lifted himself onto Achilles, realizing the stirrups were very short and that his legs were actually stiff.

Quasimodo petted Achilles, yet said nothing to Phoebus. He merely nodded a goodnight and made his way to the cathedral.

* * *

The next afternoon Carmen made a feeble attempt to dance, tripped, and fell into the woodpile. Blood began to run down her leg. She would not have noticed except Marcelle, Gabriel's old friend, had drawn the warm, crimson stream to her attention. The bells were ringing once again. Such a beautiful song. There was a wedding this afternoon, a Bourgeois couple. She knew this since she had prepared the carriage for the affair.

Setting herself down onto a large piece of wood, she lifted her skirts to her knees to inspect the damage. A few layers of skin lay crumpled into a whitish-brown mass at the edge of a oval of tender, bleeding skin. It looked much worse than it really was. Grasping the peeled skin between her thumb and forefinger, Carmen ripped it of, tossed it to the ground and replaced her skirts. This was much to the men's disappointment.

Carmen soon entered the shed to gather up scrap wood for burning in the kitchen. Lifting a rather large chunk of wood, she examined it closely. It was large enough to carve a figure similar to those she'd seen in Quasimodo's model village. She continued to look through the pile for five chunks of wood.

Days went by, Carmen did not return to Notre Dame except for mass. Father was sick, Elsa was tired. They needed her. Carmen tried to ignore the bells as best she could; she threw herself into the shop, taking on enough to keep her busy each day from dawn until dusk. Carmen went to market of course, and rode Danté to keep her fit, but kept busy. Initially, she felt stronger, more powerful. Then she began to notice changes each morning as she dressed, she was wasting away. She was not happy. Looking over at father, sleeping soundly in his bed. No. She had to be happy. She had a mother and father who loved her. She had a home. To love another, to leave them would be selfish.

It was early evening, the altar of the lazy had just been summoned. The evening meal bubbled softly over the hearth while Carmen sat by the fire to warm her weakened body. She stared into the flames, watched them flicker into faint shapes of people and animals. Quasi ringing his bells, a black figure standing behind him, sword in hand and raised for the kill. Carmen shut her eyes and turned away. No, it was just fire, just her imagination this time.

Carmen picked up the violin and fingered out a few notes, chords, then a melody. Something to take her mind off of him. She began to sing softly.

_Raven black as ebony,_

_You fly so mighty proud_

_Your wings set wide,_

_Your heart set free_

_Your head held high,_

_You cannot see_

_The owl has you in his sight_

_Watching for you every night_

_The owl is ravens' destiny_

Elsa walked into the room unnoticed while Carmen continued to play, smiled, then stepped out as her song ended. Elsa smiled and reentered the room noisily. Carmen quickly arose and began to stir the soup with her tired hands wrapped around a great wooden spoon. Chicken stew.

Carmen continued to push herself. By the third week she was forgetting things that had previously been second nature. Elsa approached her on a Thursday morning before dawn, while she was lighting the fire.

"Have you baked the bread and started breakfast?"

"Oh no, I've forgotten!"

"I suppose you were busy fixing that old harness?"

"Harness?"

"… and cleaning the stable?"

"I was just going to do that"

"I assume the floor has been swept?"

Carmen glanced downward, the floor was obviously dirty. "Soon?"

"Carmen, for the past week you've been forgetting to do things, for three weeks you've been off in your own little world more than usual. You've buried yourself in work to the point you've forgotten what you're doing. You don't play your violin, pet your horse, or daydream. I no longer hear you singing. You've wasted away and have become distant. So help me, I don't know what to do with you. I've lost my daughter. What has come over you?"

Carmen looked up at her with pleading eyes. She was never been able to lie outright, so she said nothing. Tears began to flow in the corners of Carmen's eyes, which she held back with trembling eyelids. Elsa scanned her face, where her face melted from one of concern to a smile.

"Ah, so that's it. Well, you had better tell me who he is."

Carmen was flabbergasted.

"I can see it in your face, you've a beau."

The tears in Carmen's eyes began to fall from her eyes. "It's not right, I never meant for it to happen! Elsa, please believe me when I tell you I only wanted to meet him! I didn't think it would come to this."

Elsa reached around Carmen with her soft arm. "It's OK, Kira. Nobody ever intends for these things to happen, but such things are left to a greater power." Elsa motioned toward the Cathedral. "Would you tell me who the lucky young man is? Oh I can tell by your expression, he's very handsome, isn't he? Of high rank!"

"I do, don't I? I love him! Oh why did this happen!" Carmen began to sob into her hands, Elsa patted her on the back. "You and father would never approve."

"Does he love you?"

"I'm not sure, I think so. I'm not sure. We were in Notre Dame, he smiled at me and I smiled back. He sent me away. He was upset. I don't understand"

"You do, Kira. He loves you. Who…"

"You wouldn't like him"

"Kira?"

Carmen said nothing and turned away slightly.

"Kira, whoever it is, I'm sure we can…"

"Quasi."

"What?"

"The bellringer."

There was silence. Elsa's hand lifted from Carmen's back and she stepped away. She held her index finger over her nose and tapped it between her eyes as she circled the room in thought. Elsa turned around, drew her hand down across her aged face as to support her chin. Her eyes lifted to meet Carmen's.

"The Hunchback? Of Notre Dame?"

"Yes." Carmen stood as a statue, her tears flowing over her stone faced expression.

After a few moments of pacing, Elsa broke the silence. "I've heard nothing but good things about him. This will be difficult, but I will talk to your father"

"You are not at all angry?"

"Kira, darling. When you came to us, both your father and I knew you were not ours, nor would you ever be. You were only ours on loan. You're a young woman, most your age are already married. You have fallen for the bellringer. I don't understand it, but you've always been a funny girl." Elsa gave a heavy sigh. "Tell me more about him. What is his real name?"

"Quasimodo" Carmen's tears were drying. Her & Quasi might be together.

"You know, your father may not take this very well, but fortunately for us a meeting between the two of them should be safe."

"Excuse me?"

"Your father knows him as "the hunchback" only & strongly dislikes him. If the room is a bit dark, your father won't see him at all, due to his poor eyesight. Now his name is rather, um, interesting. Your father knows just as well as we do what it means." This did not comfort Carmen much. Elsa stared at Carmen, seemingly disappointed with her. "Tell me about him."

"Well, he's the bellringer. He lives in Notre Dame and is very learned. He can read, write and speak English, Latin and Greek." Carmen paused, Elsa motioned for her to continue.

"What does he look like?" Elsa stated flatly. This is what Carmen didn't want to describe. Why did his looks matter? Was Elsa just curious? Would it matter if she described him as she saw him, or as she envisioned him? There was most certainly a difference.

"Well, he's a bit shorter than me, his hair's the same shade as Danté's. He's fair-skinned. His voice, it's the most beautiful voice I've ever heard! His smile is so warm and he has these eyes, they're the most beautiful shade of blue. I've never seen such eyes…" Carmen fiddled in her pockets as she rambled and pulled out a carving knife, it was Quasi's, not her own. "I miss Quasi so much! I've not seen him in days."

"Go to him, Kira. You've been working so hard lately, you could use the break. I'm sure he misses you as well. The bells have not been as joyful." Elsa handed her a basket.

Carmen nodded her head in agreement, a radiant smile appearing for the first time in weeks. She quickly removed her apron and stepped out the door toward Parvis Notre Dame. Elsa watched as Carmen bolted toward the Cathedral carrying her feet as if they were weightless. "Please don't trip" thought Elsa. "Now is not the time to be clumsy." The old woman smiled blissfully as the young girl entered the Cathedral without stumbling. Such was Kira.

Elsa rubbed the doorjamb, worn smooth within the past three months. This couldn't last, it was just a girlish fantasy. Foolish girl. Try to pull them apart, they would surely end up together. Let them be together, she'd move on to someone else. Hopefully someone more suited to her would replace this freak of nature, some educated _and_ handsome young man.

Then again… Elsa stared at Notre Dame. Perhaps her interest in the bellringer wouldn't pass. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Allowing this wrenched at her heart. To have the hunchback in her own family, her daughter's husband. Elsa shuddered. She'd always put a great effort into being accepting of everyone, but the hunchback? Elsa was ashamed of herself. She'd never heard anything bad about him, save his ugliness which wasn't his fault. God was testing her.

Elsa spoke to the belltower. "Kira must see something in you that I don't."

Carmen walked to Notre Dame, yet could not face Quasimodo. If he loved her, he would have been to visit her. Her heart ached for him yet she couldn't step inside. Instead, she walked down to the river and tossed stones into the water. The hunchback of Notre Dame wasn't looking for love, he liked his solitude, otherwise he wouldn't have turned her away. He was happy on his own, he had to be. The young woman placed her head on her knees and began to cry. At that moment, the bellringers' lay eyes fixed upon a female figure crouched by the river. He was sitting, as still as a gargoyle, on one of the rainspouts. His red hair danced in the breeze, blowing toward his face. He watched as Carmen tossed small stones into the river. He sighed heavily. Phoebus had wanted to meet with him, he had better go. How he wanted to stay where he was, watching her every move.

Grasping a protruding stone, the bellringer lifted himself from the gargoyle and up the side of the Cathedral into the belltower. He quickly combed his hair and threw on a clean and untorn shirt. The bells needed tending to as well.

Carmen sat on the steps in front of the church, listening to Quasi's music. Eventually the music stopped and people began to fill the streets. He would be down soon, sweet and smiling. Definitely not a white knight in shining armor, not what she had dreamed of in her childhood fantasies, but it seemed right. No other arms around her would feel right. It was his eyes that she'd had gotten lost in. His odd smile, missing whole rows of teeth, his soft, soothing, masculine voice.

Quasimodo soon emerged from the Cathedral in search of Phoebus. Moments later, he and Carmen walked by the Seine, their hands at their sides. Carmen was the first to break the silence.

"Quasi, Elsa knows about us."

Quasi looked concerned. "That explains why you have not come to see me."

"I think she's happy for us, actually. Or rather, indifferent. She admitted she's been watching us since before the beginning. She want's us to be together.

"Then what's the barrier?"

"You have to meet with my father as soon as you are able. He's a good man, but apparently has issues with my having a beau. He's very fussy."

"Does this have something to do with me personally?" Carmen nodded meekly. She leaned against the rabbit hutch that had been set up in March. It was worth admiring, she used it as a resting place.

"Fortunately he only knows of you by your appearance." Quasimodo tickled one of the bunnies under the chin.

"That helps, then, doesn't it. There's no getting around that." The bunny hopped off, no longer the centre of attention.

"Quasi, my love, my father is nearly blind. He doesn't know your name and Elsa won't tell him. He'll never make the connection of who you really are."

Quasi gave a faint smile. "I've never talked with someone who couldn't see my face before. It doesn't seem right somehow, that he doesn't know who I am." They continued to walk. "Before the beginning?"

That night in the stable, Carmen kept her word and played her violin for Quasimodo and once over her nervousness, it was easy around him, began to sing the song that had led her to him.

While singing, she noticed that Quasimodo was carefully listening to each word that passed her lips. She watched his eyes to the point she failed to move her fingers properly as she drew the bow across the strings. The sound sent shivers up her spine, Carmen winced. Quasi looked distressed.

"Please don't stop!" Carmen continued, but began to wonder. Quasi was bellringer, he made music. Why wouldn't a sour note phase him like it did herself? Even the most polite, nonmusical person cannot stop themselves from squirming when they hear a nasty note, especially when it comes from a violin. Quasi didn't move.

Carmen set her violin down on the floor of the tower. She was sure she now knew something Quasi was afraid to tell her, something that would make a difference if he were to meet her father in relative darkness. How to test her theory?

Carmen fingered her bow, lessening off the tension so that the hairs separated out. Quasi watched, fascinated.

"Why are you doing that?"

"I only have one bow, I need it to last as long as possible. That is, unless you know anyone with a white horse. Would you like to try playing it?"

Quasi shook his head. "Oh, no. I could never play as you do" He tapped on his left shoulder, not entirely suited to playing a violin. Just as well, if what she thought was true, the proof would be painful. Quasi placed his hand on the bow, meeting her eyes.

"You know, don't you."

"Know what?"

The right side of his mouth curled into a sad half smile, partly hiding his good eye.

"Yes." Carmen stated plainly. There was no other way to put it. Quasimodo's lack of hearing would make all the difference in the world, were he and Gabriel to meet in darkness.

Shortly after Carmen left to meet with Quasimodo, a heated argument began just across the square. Elsa was making bread, Gabriel sat by the fire.

"Of all the stupid things that girl has done this outdoes them all. Stupid, stupid girl!"

Elsa continued to cry out loud, shouting at Gabriel. She was angry, spitting venomous words at him about Carmen. What she had done, he did not know. He was afraid to ask.. Elsa continued her rant.

"Her and those fool notions." Elsa pounded the bread dough, throwing a cloud of flour upward. "She knows nothing. It's your fault, you know. You brought her home. If only you had left her there, we wouldn't be in this mess. The Minister of Justice wouldn't have been a threat to us, we never would have left the city."

Gabriel nodded softly, indifferent. He held his tea, which had cooled long ago, fearing to ask for another. Elsa continued.

"She doesn't understand her place, she can't just do whatever she likes and gallivanting around with that filthy bellringer whenever she takes a notion." Gabriel's attention perked. "She won't listen to her mother."

Gabriel finally spoke. "You're not her mother."

Elsa shot a violent stare into Gabriels' eyes and her expression softened slightly. She looked down at the mangled bread dough. It was no use. She'd been too rough with something meant to be handled gently.

"Have you even been listening? Have you even noticed her behaviour?"

"What is this about a bellringer?" Elsa sighed, unsettled by Gabriel's nonchalant comment.

"It's what I've been telling you. Kira wants to leave us for the bellringer."

"Which one?"

"What do you mean 'which one'? Notre Dame, you old cuss. She's been swooning over him for more than a month." Elsa swung her hands violently in the air. "He's stopping by on Monday. I expect you will get rid of him. I will not have the likes of him in my family."

"It will pass. Girlish fancy..." Elsa nodded approvingly. " …and if her liking does not pass, I will do nothing to stop it." Gabriel continued.

Elsa grew red in the face, threw the lump of dough into the fire pit and stormed out of the kitchen.

The old man glanced at the fireplace and watched as the dough expanded into a great mass with the heat of the fire surrounding it. This was exactly what should happen. Let Elsa try to pull them apart, set a fire underneath them. Let the flames burn, let their love grow. It was God's will.


	8. Part 7

**Part 7  
**

Phoebus paced back and forth in the Palais of Justice. He had just received word that the New Minister would be arriving within the next week. Minister Durand. He was of no relation to Frollo. This did not coincide with what the gypsy had foretold. Phoebus began to walk throughout the Palais de Justice. There had to be something of importance in here. Phoebus walked past door after door no hints of anything that may help him solve his problem.

Phoebus was grumbling and cussing under his breath when he reached the uppermost tower of the Palais. He looked out the window to see, in clear view, the twin towers of Notre Dame. The room was empty and cold. There was no fireplace. Frollo was an educated man, self-righteous and controlling. He would have needed to have a clear view of Notre Dame at all time, partly for religious reasons, partly to keep an eye on Quasimodo. Frollo's study may hold the answer and it would be facing Notre Dame.

Phoebus continued to charge though the building, dispatching a few trusted guards to help him search. Every door was opened, every passage felt for secret passages. They found nothing.

The bells rang out as Phoebus rode home. Quasimodo was in his tower, ringing the bells as he always had. Phoebus slowed Achilles to listen closely. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. Before he'd left to join the military twenty years ago he remembered the bells ringing day and night. Frollo was Minister then, yet at the age of seven Phoebus had been too young to understand.

Phoebus stared at the belltower long after the music stopped. When he had left Paris, he had been there. Twenty years later, he was still there. Older and wiser yet nearly as innocent. Wiser. Phoebus polished the pommel of his saddle with his worn glove. Perhaps Quasi would know which window led to Frollo's study. Phoebus dismounted and led Achilles to a nearby stable. Esmeralda would not be home yet anyhow, what would it matter if he was a bit late? She would never question him if he mentioned he was with Quasimodo.

Phoebus heard a thump against the door as he approached. Pushing it with one arm, then both, he realized it was barred for the night. Phoebus sped over to the farthest right door, which was still open. As he stepped inside the rich smell of incense burned his nose. Pale candlelight filled the church, illuminating the faint coils of smoke that swirled overhead, as well as Quasimodo, who was fastening the middle door.

Quasimodo turned to secure a latch when he caught sight of Phoebus, standing as if a statue in the cold darkness of the church.

"Good evening Phoebus."

"Quasi. I was hoping to find you. I need your help."

"Just a moment." Quasimodo walked over and finished his nightly ritual of door-locking, loosely securing the door Phoebus had come through as to allow Sanctuary should anyone need it. "This way."

The hunchback led Phoebus up the stairs to his tower. As Phoebus climbed the dark, damp steps he remembered a time, not so long ago on the seventh of January, he had been held by his throat on these same steps. Phoebus gave a relieved sigh. Quasi was his friend now.

Quasimodo lit three candles, providing enough light for Phoebus to see his way. He pulled out a chair for Phoebus. Phoebus declined.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather stand." Phoebus walked over to Quasimodo's table & looked over the miniature city. "Dear friend…" Phoebus trailed off. "How do I put this?" he said under his breath. "Quasi. It relates to what Clopin told us several weeks ago. The new minister is arriving within the next week. I've searched, but he has no relation to Frollo whatsoever. Yet Clopin would not lie to us, not when so many lives are at stake."

Quasi appeared calm, gently and absentmindedly rearranging the figures on his table. "Who is he?"

"Minister Luc Durand."

Quasi nodded lightly, then returned his knowing gaze to Phoebus' eyes. "This way."

Setting a candle into Phoebus' hands Quasimodo and his friend stepped onto the great walkway of stone that spanned the two towers of Notre Dame. Phoebus struggled to keep his balance through the wooden frames of the tower. Quasimodo moved swiftly, while Phoebus trailed the light from his candle. Phoebus counted six bells above his head, hanging in silence. Quasi was not here to ring them.

Under the bells, at the far end of the tower lay a pile of boards and broken sculpture. Phoebus recognized some of them from the first time he had been in Quasimodo's tower.

"Move some of these over there, would you?"

Phoebus watched as Quasimodo lifted a stone head at least twice his weight with ease, setting it a few meters away. Phoebus struggled with some of the smaller pieces. He was strong, no doubt, but Phoebus' strength was no match for that of the hunchback, whom Phoebus saw as a living, breathing, walking contradiction.

Phoebus rolled off the last stone and looked at the floor, where his friend stared down in relative silence. "Now what do we do?" Quasi said nothing, yet kneeled on the hard planks. Phoebus noticed the metal loop that lay depressed in the wood. Quasimodo lifted it upright, then stood up.

"Give it a try" Phoebus recognized that smile, a smile only Quasimodo could make. Phoebus bent over and grasped the handle, giving it one hard yank. The door remained immobile, Phoebus' shoulder did not.

"Now watch." Quasimodo twisted the loop to the left a few turns, then to the right. "Try again, lightly this time."

Phoebus, nervously grasped the handle, then lifted lightly. The door opened to reveal a long, steep stairway full of cobwebs. Quasi went first, sweeping them away with his large fist. He stopped briefly to run his fingers over the word "FATE" on the wall, which had been carved not so long ago.

The passageway soon ended and the two men arrived at a small wooden door. Had it been anywhere else it would have appeared innocent, yet surrounded in cobwebs within the dark secret passageway of a church, it appeared almost frightening. Phoebus watched as Quasimodo opened the door and entered, as if he'd done so many times before.

"You should find what you need in here, but please do not disturb anything more than necessary."

Phoebus set his candle on the cluttered desk and beheld what surrounded him. Bottles of mysterious herbs and liquids, stacks of tapers, flints, quills and ink bottles. What stuck him as the most interesting were the rows of books that graced the shelves. The volumes were ancient and leather-bound. He removed one from the shelf. Quasimodo reminded him to be careful.

As Phoebus opened the covers it came to his attention that this collection was unlike Quasimodo's. Written in languages unknown to Phoebus, all of them were books of witchcraft, wizardry, alchemy and the dark arts. Phoebus could tell by the images that lay penned within them. Long forgotten and authorless pages that told of a tortured owner by their mere presence. A twisted, cruel and vengeful soul. The same man who had accused his darling Esmeralda, his beloved dancer, of being a witch. Phoebus was dumbstruck.

"That is not who you are here, I believe these are why you came." Quasi lifted his arm and motioned toward a stack of scrolls balanced between a misshapen human skull and the damp stone wall. Mast…err… Frollo kept journals of his studies and daily activities. Mind what you read, don't get lost in them."

"Have you read them?"

"No. The past is best left where it lies."

"Then why should I read them?" Phoebus asked. His words came out harsh, although he did not mean them to.

"_Fas est ab hoste doceri."_

Phoebus shrugged and lifted a scroll off the shelf, unrolling it enough to see the dates. None appeared, only line after line of strange symbols. Phoebus shook his head. "I can't read this. Maybe it's Arabic. I never learned Arabic." Quasimodo reached over and turned the scroll the other way around. "Of course. I knew that all along, just testing you."

Quasimodo anxiously looked throughout the room while Phoebus read the rows and rows of Latin verse. On one of the shelves he found a book that had once graced his hands as well. A book Frollo must have read with great contempt. He thought back to the day when it had fell into his hands, a copy having been left in one of the cloisters.

To read a book was a great privledge. Books were rare, literacy was even less common. Of the thousands of people in Paris he was one of the few who could open the pages of any book, in nearly any language, and read it with little difficulty. What he had to offer the people was great, especially with the advent of Gutenburgs printing press. Unfortunately there were barriers in place that made this impossible.

_December 1481_

_He flipped gently through the pages of a printed book within the secluded walls of his sanctuary. He lit a single candle and focused his attention on the small booklet, really no more than a few pages. He sat down on the floor and sipped his tea. Reading a book forbidden to him was definitely a rarity._

_A poet had written it's words "On Freedom of Thought". Was this man as open minded as he wrote? He wrote about freeing yourself from the forced ideals of others and the foolishness of superstition. These were light topics in Gringoires hands, yet dangerous ones for himself._

_To challenge these words would be dangerous; leaving sanctuary would mean at the very least a pin in his hump, a public flogging or possibly death. Were he to remain here, no physical harm would beset him unless this book were found. If he were to challenge his master's ideals, he would most certainly come to harm. Some things are not as easy as they seem on the printed page._

_Quasimodo read on. It was interesting what this poet had to say. He would surely be hanged as a heretic. There was much here in terms of wisdom and common sense. Others did not strike the bellringer as well. The chapter on beauty struck him hard._

"_Beauty is the answer," he wrote "for it is only beauty that will overpower all that is ugly and hidden in the shadows. Yet not all beauty shines, we talk of beauty within while hiding away all but the superficial. We must learn to distinguish the two so that all that radiates love may be in the light where it belongs."_

_He did not agree with the written words, yet read them over. To think that a man could write something so bold, something that could mean his life, without fear. If only he could take such a step, to write scrolls and words that could help change the people's attitude toward him and others like him. Quasimodo stifled a laugh, there were no others like him._

_There were four walls around him, there always would be. He would die alone in this miserable place where others came to pray for goodness and fairness._

Phoebus brought the bellringer out of his trance with the scroll he had been reading. The date was April 19, 1474; eight years ago. There was no mention of Durand or any of Frollo's family, yet Phoebus knew he had laid his hands on the answers. Within the first few lines it was written that it had snowed lightly in the morning, the Archdeacon no longer interfered with Quasimodo's upbringing, two gypsy witches had been burned and five more captured.

Phoebus looked up to see Quasimodo holding half of the scrolls in a crate. "We must leave this place, now. You will read these in the sanctuary; away from here."

Phoebus obliged, lifting the other crate of scrolls to his shoulder and following him out of the dark hole. Once the place was sealed as before, the two men passed through the cloisters, up a set of stairs and into a small room nestled below one of the flying buttresses.

"We will read them here. These must never leave the church." Phoebus nodded.

While carrying the crate up the steps Quasimodo revised his thoughts. There were no others like him, that was definitely true. However, things had not worked out too badly. Bad things had happened, most things had worked out for the best.

Phoebus and Quasimodo read each scroll together, as Quasimodo soon realized that Phoebus did not know Greek. He had gotten slightly annoyed at the constant interruption and decided that one scroll at a time would have to. It was not Phoebus's fault that he had not been shown how to read or speak Greek. He was fortunate enough to know Latin. Quasimodo knew most people could not even write their own names.

It was all there in the scrawling of a madman. The dates started in May of 1460 and continued to December of 1481; twenty-five years of Frollo's life were locked away in that little room and had now resurfaced. Everything was there, in a random mixture of Latin and Greek. Frollo's descent into evil, his efforts in medicine, witchcraft and alchemy. His killings were also recorded, without names or details, statements such as "cleansed the city of eight by hanging".

Quasimodo was also written about, certainly more than Quasimodo would have liked. Phoebus had come across the scroll containing a detailed account of "the death of one heathen wench". It was written further that "her demon child has been sent to the belltower of Notre Dame". Phoebus discovered that although Clopin's story was once popular, it did not match this account as closely as it could have. Quasimodo made Phoebus promise not to discuss anything, except what related to Durand, ever again.

Twice during the night Quasimodo left to ring his bells; twice Phoebus felt the whole of the church tremble to it's very entrails. He continued to read what he could.

_January 4 1476. Cold and rainy. New tax placed on mutton. Bells now ringing on their own, Quasimodo taking over, quickly growing into a man. Attempt to find court of Miracles foiled by Clopin, their new leader. New Captain of Kings Guard arriving next week to replace the late Captain Demeil. _

Phoebus continued to read by the dancing candlelight.

_January 5 1476. Cold, light snow. New captain arriving this afternoon. Have agreed with Archdeacon, Quasimodo will be made bellringer in April on Quasimodo Sunday. Feast of Fools tomorrow, guards out in full force to protect the weak minded from being misled. _

Phoebus continued, fortunately most of it was Latin. Quasimodo walked in as Phoebus read Easter of 1476 out loud. Apparently Easter of that year had been uneventful, save a strong wind that had blown off Frollo's hat into the Seine. Phoebus passed the scroll to Quasimodo and grabbed another.

"I stopped on the 11th of April and skipped all the Greek bits. I don't think there's anything, but can't be certain."

As Quasimodo took the scroll from Phoebus's hand, he sensed Phoebus envied his education ever so slightly. Phoebus had been to many places, many countries that Quasimodo had only read or dreamt about and would never see. Both men felt it, both knew the other knew. Quasimodo, shut in a tower all his life, knew more and thought faster than the Captain of the Guard. Phoebus couldn't help but be humbled. Then again, his wife knew more than him too.

Quasi rolled up the scroll and began reading the bits Phoebus could not understand. Lots of words about the weather, Master must have been obsessed with it. Frequent complaints about Gypsies, thieves and heathens. Quasi read the odd line about himself with great interest. Frollo stopped the monks from seeing him and knew he would be made bellringer. Quasimodo read farther down the page.

_Low Sunday 1476. Bright and sunny. Quasimodo made bellringer last night, he gave a beautiful ringing this morning. Acted strangely later on, ignored my entrance into his tower. He didn't say much, assume he ruptured both his tympanum…_

Quasimodo stopped reading for a moment. Although he didn't know what a tympanum was, he understood what he had hoped not to be discovered had been. Frollo had known from the first day.

"What day did you say you stopped at?"

"April 11th " Phoebus raised his head. "Why, did you find something?"

"Apparently I was made official bellringer on the 18th "

"Quasi, it's almost morning. We are not going to learn anything new tonight. Let us meet again tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow is Sunday, Monday perhaps?"

"Wednesday would be preferable. Military requirements at the Palais du Justice." Phoebus polished his boot with his glove. "Must we read these together?"

"I would prefer it."

* * *

The sun had gone down hours before, yet Carmen remained awake in her bed. Before her, in the darkness, danced coloured specks of light, forming themselves into faces without eyes.

One hovered at the foot of her bed, materializing into a tall figure. Carmen drew herself further under the quilts, yet could still see him. She could feel the figures' chilling fingers reach through the wool and linen, grasping her neck. Struggling to scream, Carmen choked on her own breath, squeaking. With her right hand she felt the edge of her bed. She had to get out of here; she couldn't stay another moment.

Carmen ran across the Parvis Notre Dame. The church was always a safe place; she would be safe there. Carmen's eyes remained fixed on the great door, only a little farther. Her bare feet became numb as she ran across the wet cobbles, trying not to slip and fall. She was being followed.

Carmen flung herself against the great door, struggling to push it open, then pull. She could not remember which way it opened. Giving one final push, the door yielded to her weight. Quickly sliding into the church, Carmen forced the door closed and dropped the bar.

Carmen stood in the nave of the cathedral, looking at the pews. The altar was lit, yet not a soul was to be seen. Watching the candles flicker in the still air she walked up the aisle toward it.

As she passed each row she felt an icy chill rise from below and gather around her feet. She was not alone. The last candle died, its smoke rising toward the great vaulted roof, to mingle with the incense that had been burned earlier. The entire cathedral was empty, or so it seemed at the moment. Silence, darkness.

It was at that moment Carmen felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned slightly to see the face of an old man, yet when she looked directly at him he had vanished. As she stood there she felt the hand of others, touching her. Cold, icy hands. Hands that could bring hot tea to freeze. Their chill crept up her spine. She could see them, but only in shadows and broken images. They were there, she could feel them. "Quasi, where are you?" Carmen whispered under her breath.

The scent of sandalwood met her nose as the delicate tendrils of milky smoke surrounded her. Turning from the altar she looked down the aisle where she had been but moments before. The incense spread through the wooden pews in a thick blanket, swirling and condensing. The smoke illuminated itself as it settled above the pews into the shapes of men and women. The belly of the church was full of people, young and old, but not a single child among them. They wore ornate clothing and sat row and row, each unaware of their neighbor. All of them knelt in prayer, their lips moving in unison. As Carmen stood there she strained to listen. They were mumbling in Latin

"_Blessed Mary, _

_provide me with wealth,_

_plenty riches. _

_Eternal life,_

_eternal fame. _

_Blessed Virgin. _

_Mighty Holiness. _

_Give me glory,_

_such that I may surpass my neighbor._

_Give me strength_

_to overpower my enemy._"

She shuddered. Only their lips moved, nothing else. They knelt in prayer, mumbling their Latin verse over and over.

Carmen stepped from the altar and began to walk down the aisle. As she passed by the pews the people's heads lifted, their eyes following my every movement. She felt a pull at her dress.

Turning to release herself she met the gaze of a richly dressed man, a lord. His face was wrinkled and ashen, his lips thin. His eyes were empty caverns of darkness. She tugged at her dress in attempt to wrench it from his gold-laden hand.

"Save me, sister. Mercy. Mercy."

The prayer faded as the congregation began to flock toward the aisle.

Carmen pulled herself away, gathering her skirts into her arms. She had to get out of here; she had to find Quasimodo. With each step Carmen could feel the icy hands laying upon her back, shoulders and arms.

"Mercy! Mercy!" the crowd whispered.

With each step toward the stairs, she continued to push to push their icy talons away. Each time meeting their empty gazes from the corner of her eye, looking into their eyes only to have them vanish from sight.

"Mercy!"

The Lords, Ladies and Magistrates cried for mercy, their hands clasped tightly together. Carmen watched as they knelt on the floor, their heads rising up and down in a steady rhythm.

"Mercy! Mercy!" they whispered, barely audible in the silence of night.

As she placed her foot onto the first step into the tower, she turned to see the people returned to their praying.

"…_Eternal life, eternal fame_…."

Carmen rubbed her hands against her chilled arms as she ran up the damp staircase toward sanctuary.

Quasimodo slept while hunched over at his table, a taper slowly burning, silhouetting him and a stack of scrolls on the table. The tower was cold, yet she began to feel warmer as she beheld the image before her. As she approached him she stumbled on a piece of stone, stifling a cuss with a grunt.

Carmen stole into Quasimodo's sleeping area and attempted to rest on the soft down mattress, yet she couldn't sleep. She stepped out of the small room, taking an empty water bucket with her. Overturning the bucket near the bellringer, she seated herself next to him. She rested her head on his soft shoulder.

Moments later she began to tremble, she was being watched. Quasimodo was still asleep next to her. There was something in the tower evil and menacing. It had followed her from her home. She began to shake Quasimodo violently, awaking him.

"Quasi, there's something in here with us." She whispered, forgetting he was blind as well as deaf in the darkness of night. Having gotten no response, she drew her dagger and waited. Once the hunchback awoke she drew him out of the tower with her.

"There, Quasi. Between those to columns." Carmen pointed toward a tall black figure was drifting among the cloisters, visible under the palest of moonlight. The monks that walked the cloisters seemed not to notice it. Carmen drew Quasimodo's hand away from the parapet. "It's following us. We must run, we must get out of here!"

"Carmen, it's going to be fine. I'm sure it was just a shadow. Nothing is chasing you, nothing will harm you while I am here." There was a brief pause. "I will protect you."

"Quasi! It's coming for us!"

Carmen did not wait for Quasimodo to respond. She grasped his hand, throwing him of balance. Quasimodo followed as she began to run toward the south tower.

"Carmen! What are you doing? There's nothing down there besides a few worshippers. They mean us no harm."

"We can't. We can't stay here!" Carmen continued to run. Quasimodo kept up with her and could have easily overtaken her, yet knew not to. She was frightened and not in a proper state of mind. She carried a weapon and may use it in defense against whatever she saw or thought she saw. So Quasimodo followed merely to not lose sight of her.

Carmen reached the bridge between the two towers and stood stiff for a brief moment. She looked at each tower, then the parapet where three gargoyles stood. She watched them for a brief moment, then shrunk back, her leg hit the opposite wall. Without looking she leapt over the wall.

"No! Wait!" Quasimodo exclaimed.

Carmen landed on the cool lead of the Cathedral's steep roof and began to run toward the spire. Quasimodo watched, dumbfounded, for a few moments. She was never this agile, she was often clumsy.

A moment later Quasimodo felt a cold chill run up his crooked spine. He peered over his shoulder to catch a mere glimpse of what had laid hands on him, only to have it vanish from sight. Quasimodo followed Carmen, finding her high in the spire above the wooden bell. She sat on the beam, shaking. Quasimodo climbed the rope ladder up to where she sat, seating himself near her. She reached out with her hand and grasped his leg, causing him to flinch slightly.

Carmen trembled. She couldn't talk with Quasimodo since it was too dark. To speak would attract whatever the shadow was that followed them. She couldn't move or she would scream.

_Please don't say anything, Quasi. Please, don't move. Hopefully it will just go away._

The black figure appeared below their feet, drifting over the planks. It wandered about, then stood directly below them. They were trapped.

Carmen gripped Quasimodo's leg tighter, causing him to jump once more. She felt Quasimodo move.

"Quasi! Get down!" she whispered. He'd never hear her. She reached for his leg, but only touched the sole of his shoe.

Suddenly Carmen felt a cold chill from above, she hunched her shoulders and covered her ears.

_DONG_

The boards shook beneath her. When she peered down, the thing had vanished. Whatever it was, it had left.

As Quasimodo led her out of the tower, she swore she saw the outline of a tall man moving along the roof toward one of the buttresses. It was no longer after them, they were safe.

Quasimodo guided Carmen along the narrow walkway. She was still shaky on her feet. She was soon drinking a cold cup of tea, sweetened with honey, by candlelight.. She'd been a fool, would she have stayed in bed this wouldn't have happened. She wouldn't be so frightened, she wouldn't have disturbed and frightened Quasimodo.

Meanwhile, the bellringer looked on not sure what to say or do. He walked he home.

* * *

Quasimodo was alone in his tower. The girl he thought may just fall in love with him, was mad. He'd talked to stone, yet that had been from lack of any company. It had been of necessity to prevent him from going mad. Carmen was truly mad and may be incapable of being a lover. Quasi sighted deeply, she came on so strong, she was pretty. Of course she would be mad.

For the next couple days, Quasimodo thought about Carmen carefully. Her house was in clear view, her horse always in the square and she frequented the church in prayer with her family. He couldn't get her out of his mind. She couldn't be mad.

The Archdeacon stepped beside Quasimodo who stood near the statue of Mary. Notre Dame was empty save the pair of them.

"We've not seen you with your lady for some time, Quasimodo."

"I've not seen her for three days. She came to the tower late at night, she was terrified. I do not understand. There was nothing there, no one but us up there. I do not understand her."

"Quasimodo. You're only a man. You have been a loyal servant of this church longer than I have. I'd like to say I know you, but I don't." Quasi didn't seem impressed. "However, it is easy to see that you care for this woman. The Lord would not look down upon you for perusing her, either."

"Sir, she was terrified."

"Show her how to lose her fear. I remember tales of a certain bellringer being mad, yet none of them were true."

"No one ever came to the tower."

"Stories travel, Quasimodo." The hunchback wrung his hands and stared at the checkerboard floor. "Are you not even going to ask about her?"

Quasimodo's glance turned away from the Archdeacon for breif moment, he wrung his hands together softly.

"I hear her praying, Quasimodo. She prays as any sane person would do. She is sensible. She prays for her fathers' and mother's good health. She prays for blessings of good crops and health of the livestock."

"Unusual, but I don't understand."

"I've heard your name too, Quasimodo. She asked for your happiness and health as well."

"Nothing else?"

"The girl prays for you with her family. She worries you _will_ think her crazy, and that you no longer wish to see her. Give her a chance. For you to find a lover is a miracle, Quasimodo. Not just for you but for any man. If it's true, it's worth holding onto."

The priest said nothing further. He held the candlesnuffer in his hands and walked off to have dinner in the abbey.

Later that same evening, Quasimodo sat at his table sipping a hot cup of tea. His hands moved the wooden figures around mindlessly, much like real people moved. Among them were three new figures, a hunchbacked figure, a girl and a small horse, all unpainted, oversized and quite roughly carved. They stood in an alleyway, barely noticeable and close together, their hands interlocking. They had appeared of their own accord the day before. He observed that Frollo still remained in the model city, covered with pigeon dung and toppled over.

Phoebus burst in.

"The prediction is true, there's going to be trouble." Quasi raised one eyebrow, Phoebus continued. "Things will get violent." Phoebus unrolled the scroll a bit further as to allow a clear view of Frollo's scrawling. Quasimodo quickly moved the new figures away from the rest of the models and into the model belltower.

"Twelve years ago his cousin Ruth wed a young man at the age of 15. Minister Frollo opposed the marriage and refused to acknowledge it. Apparently Ruth was supposed to be placed in a convent in Versailles, where instead she was married." Phoebus drew a sheet of parchment from his scabbard. "This notice received this morning states that Minister Durand and his wife Ruth of Versailles will arrive by sundown."

The bellringer pushed the model city back from the table edge, just as Phoebus let several scrolls roll onto the wood surface.

"These scrolls have proven it. According to them, Monsieur Luc Durand was married in 1474. Ruth Leiss is a strong woman and loved her cousin deeply, although he had little respect for women. However, she remains loyal to him as if he were her brother. The tale of the siege has spread far and wide, your story had spread Europe through song. I have no doubts that she knows of our involvement in his death and for that reason may target us if she decides for revenge." Phoebus threw a few more papers carelessly onto Quasi's model city, toppling several figures. "It doesn't look good for either of us. Where is it you said Solona mentioned you should go? I suggest you take her advice. I have friends throughout the land who will take you in."

"Non. I will stay in Notre Dame. Paris is my home."


	9. Part 8

**Part 8  
**

It was late Monday afternoon. Quasimodo was to come by and meet Gabriel, as to request courtship of Carmen. The bells had rung some time ago, he would be arriving soon.

Carmen leaned close to the door, standing still in hope of hearing the faint scuff of his leather shoes on the stone. While it was true most Parisians wore similar shoes, the footfalls of the bellringer were unique.

Carmen watched from the kitchen window, washing the breakfast dishes in the basin, as her love interest approached the shop. Her father sat at the kitchen table, Elsa stood across from Gabriel, making meat pies; Gabriel stirred his tea mechanically, his fingers turning blue. The sight of Quasi caused a small tear to trail down Carmen's cheek and into the dishwater. It was early August, the sun beating down outside on the Parvis, shining brilliantly off his red hair. She began to tremble slightly. Gabriel sipped his tea.

The door was already open, Quasi stood outside of it and knocked slightly. Carmen managed to give him a nervous smile as Elsa immediately escorted her outside toward the stable. Leaving the room, she heard father and Quasimodo exchange greetings. Quasimodo's words were low and quick, revealing his nervousness.

Elsa led her into the shop and motioned for her to sit down on the woodpile, which she readily did. She must have sensed Carmen's nervousness. Silent tears began to streak down her face.

"What if father doesn't like him! What if he forbids me to see the bellringer again? What if…" Elsa cut her off.

"What if the moon were to drop out of the sky and flip the world over? Child, you worry too much. Your father will make the decision which is best for you."

"What makes you so sure?" her words were faint and wavering.

"Your father loves you as if you were his own. He wants to ensure you're taken care of."

Elsa put her arm over her shoulder; Elsa's hand brushed her cheek. "We always wanted a daughter. When you came into our home, we were so glad our prayers had been answered." With her free hand she grasped Carmen's left hand in her own. "There, there Kira. Please don't cry."

Carmen had been forgetting that father was not her father, nor Elsa her mother, but at that moment they were that and more. So what if she was not of their blood? They had raised her from a young girl, providing her with food, clothes, a home, Dante and, most important of all, love. What more could she want? Most Parisians would have seen that dirty little gypsy girl in the rubbish and left her to fend for herself. Carmen was grateful. She felt ashamed. What would her real mother thought if she had seen her now? Carmen had become a Gadje and knew nothing of her true people except what came in visions and faded memories.

"They've been in there a long time, mater. Oh I know father will never approve of him. One look and he probably thought 'no, you are too ugly for Carmen'."

"Kira, do not worry. It will all work out for the best. Remember that your fathers sight is failing him, he will not see your Beau, so there is no need to worry about something so trivial."

This was some consolation, yet not much.

"Are you in agreement with my choice?"

"I was at first taken aback by the bell ringer's appearance, but I've watched the two of you together and have seen nothing that would lead me to believe he's not who he appears to be."

Carmen looked at Elsa, tears still leaving trails across her face.

"I'm an old woman, Kira. I notice things. The way you've played your violin since meeting him, your frequent visits to Notre Dame to give alms, the way in which you walk and your fascination with the bells. I've also come to notice how the bells have became more beautiful in their song the last couple of months."

Tears still flowing, she watched Elsa. She never mentioned the trip out to the mill, though no doubt she knew of it.

"I've experienced love too, Kira. All kinds of love. You and that bellringer deserve what's best for the both of you."

Collapsing into Elsa's arms Carmen finally let the tears flow. "I really do love him, Elsa."

Elsa patted her back. "It's OK, my child."

"No it's not. I love him. I'm not supposed to love him, I'm not supposed to fall in love. You and father need me; this is where I need to be. If only I had never heard that stupid song."

"Everything will work out for you, you'll see."

"Mother, I'm torn."

Carmen didn't know if it was her words, or the manner in which she spoke them, but at that moment Elsa's touch became softer, gentler and more comforting. Tears began to flow from Elsa's eyes, she now understood.

"My daughter." She undid the leather strap that bound Carmen's hair, which than cascaded down her shoulders to her waist. Elsa felt a lock of Carmen's black hair in her aging hands and smiled. "Do you think we will abandon you once you become tied to the bellringer? We'll never leave you, you will always have a place here. You are meant to be with Kasimodo."

Elsa sat Carmen down on the bench and walked toward the house. It was terribly silent.

Inside, Quasimodo tried to understand Gabriel's soft words; Gabriel strained to see Quasimodo's face. Quasimodo, deciding he couldn't take this anymore, opened the drapes Carmen had hung, to let in more light. At the sight of Quasimodo, Gabriel lowered his head, and slowly shook it from side to side.

"You seek to court my daughter, is this true?" Quasimodo could only see his words and could merely guess at their tone.

"Oui, monsieur. I have little to offer and I understand if you refuse my request." Quasimodo sighed heavily as the old man's clouded eyes fixed upon his face, staring at him. "I care deeply for your daughter." Quasimodo stumbled on the words.

"Young man, you assume much. I have little reason to refuse your request. I am a dying man, monsieur, and am not long for this world. To know my Carmen is taken care of is all I ask, someone who won't break her spirit. Will you take good care of her when I am gone?"

"Monsieur Poivre?" Quasimodo asked and raised one eyebrow.

"What do you see before you?" The old man paused, and caught his breath. "I will tell you what you see. I am old, tired and very sick. It's in my lungs, monsieur. I cough day and night, Carmen stays with me and brings medicine. She cries for me and I have not even told her how sick I really am. She is not even my daughter, did you know that? She was a little angel, a gift from God, that fell into my life by chance."

Quasimodo was at a loss for words. The old man continued. "She talks about you in her sleep, you know. She listens to you every day, longs to ride off and see you but stays here. I know who you are, why Carmen drew the curtains. She is naiive, she is. Monsieur bellringer, I cannot see your face, but I know who you are."

Quasimodo closed his eyes and lowered his head slightly. His words came out weakly. "Carmen means a lot to me, Monsieur. I would never do anything to harm her, I would risk my life for her." Quasimodo began to choke on his words. "If you want me out of her life forever, I understand. I'm not much to look at, I have very little to offer except my…" he bit his lip before saying it, staring at the silent and still old man "…love."

"Kasimodo", whispered the old man, and sipped his tea. "I…"

Elsa, who had just arrived into the kitchen, opened the drapes farther, letting in the rest of the sunlight. Gabriel looked up her at that same moment and began to choke on his tea.

"Gabriel! Gabriel! No!" cried Elsa. Quasimodo didn't know what was happening, he sat confused on the chair at a loss of what to do. Elsa ran over to Gabriel and began pounding on his back shouting "cough!"

Having clued in, the bellringer walked over and helped Elsa to pound Gabriel's back. "Harder! Harder!" she directed him, shaking his other arm frantically.

Finally, Gabriel began to cough loudly and collapsed on the floor. Elsa raced to his head and cradled it in her lap. "Don't scare me like that! Never! I would DIE without you!"

Quasimodo carefully stepped outside and saw Carmen, in tears, sitting on the hay.

"My sweet song!" As she rose to her feet Quasi took her hand and lowered his gaze. "No! It can't be! Elsa said that father would…" Carmen read Quasi's face, no, it was something else. She let go of Quasimodo's hands and raced into the house. "No! Father!"

Gabriel was laying on the rug when Quasimodo nervously stepped back inside. The drapes should have remained closed, he never should have even set foot in the house. Now Carmen would lose her father, and for what? For a chance at his own happiness, a chance that was very slim to begin with.

Elsa and Carmen looked up at him. Gabriel coughed on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth.

"He needs his bed."

"No." coughed Gabriel. He touched Carmen's face and closed his eyes. "Be happy."

Gabriel's arm fell away from Carmen and onto the ground, he was gone. Carmen fell on top of her father's lifeless body, as did Elsa. They both cried into his shirt. Quasimodo looked on helplessly, not knowing what to do. He returned to the tower and rang the death knell.

* * *

Late that same morning, Durand's carriage arrived at the Palais de Justice. Phoebus and his soldiers stood outside awaiting his arrival anxiously.

The new Minister stepped out of the iron and wood carriage and led his wife out after him. Phoebus took a step back at the sight of her, she had Frollo's nose, eyes and build. Durand himself was older, thickset and equal to Phoebus in height. Phoebus stood at attention as the Minister approached him. He placed his hand on Phoebus's shoulder and walked with him into the Palais. Ruth followed behind with her servant.

"Captain Phoebus, war hero and faithful servant of the Kings Guard."

"At your service, Sir."

Phoebus walked Durand through the various rooms of the Palais of Justice. Durand showed displeasure at the empty dungeons and was appalled at he lack of a torturer in the cells. They walked up the steps toward the balcony.

"I do not blame you alone for the state of Paris. There is little that a man of your caliber can achieve in such a cesspool of thieves, cutpurses, murderers and drunkards without the aid of a superior. It is time, however, for order. There will be some quality entertainment and good examples set for the citizens of this fair city shortly.

"Sir?"

"Claude Frollo placed so much effort towards this noble task, a task I will complete in his honour. It is required that you learn the names of all involved in his death, starting with the abomination that was his adopted son."

Phoebus's eyes darted toward Notre Dame, then to the street below. Several gypsies danced below in the square, Esmeralda among them. Clopin's puppet wagon was nearby, entertaining a few children. "The gypsies?"

"Very good, Captain." Durand motioned toward the square. "There are so many, they have taken over this fair city with their heathen ways. I expect, Captain, that your soldiers will begin arresting these heathens. If a gypsy runs into Notre Dame, remove them immediately." Phoebus balked as the Minister moved in closer toward him, guiding his sight to Esmeralda. "I believe it was a gypsy woman who was the death of Minister Frollo, perhaps that woman there. "

Phoebus stood stiff, his eyes fixed upon his wife as she danced unknowingly in the square.

"His fault was to target the men. Captain Phoebus, may I suggest you start with the women and the children? Have your soldiers begin arrests at once and hang all that put up resistance. Starting with that one there. Bring her to me."

"Minister, with all do respect, Sir, there is no law against dancing in the square."

"Are you questioning my authority, Captain?"

"To target the women, Sir. I was not trained to commit such acts toward innocents."

"Insubordination, Captain, is a serious offence. Bring that woman to me now and I will overlook this."

Phoebus stared down at Esmeralda, then turned to Durand, standing proud. "Sir. I cannot arrest that woman."

Durand approached him closely. "Why not, Captain."

"She is my wife."

"Insolent lowlife! I suggest you leave before the guards thrown you in the dungeon! Guards! Guards!" Not a single soldier walked toward Phoebus. "Guards! Arrest him!"

The guards stood still. None of them would step forward to arrest their Captain. Under him, the hours were short, their authority respected and the city calm. They could get drunk without worry of torture or getting beat up by the gypsies they tried to arrest. Durand walked toward the balcony once more and turned to face the Captain and his men.

"If none of you will carry out my orders, there are men who will. I suggest you leave at this very moment, once my men arrive you will put you to death.

Phoebus turned to see five armed men block the exits to the balcony, leaving only one exit. Phoebus' two men looked to him for guidance. "I suggest, Minister, that you take a close look at Paris. She has never been better."

"How dare you!" Durand drew his sword. Phoebus and his men knocked down four of the five guards and ran down the stairs toward the street. They passed Ruth and her servant of the way out into the square.

The guards rapidly returned home to their families. Phoebus walked out of the Palais of Justice and to Notre Dame. Quasimodo needed to know about Sanctuary. Could Durand actually do such a thing?

Having rung the Angelus, the bellringer laid out a large cloth and filled the washbasin with warm water and lit a single taper. The ball of soap, which had been retrieved from its hiding place under the table, was set in the basin to soften. He shut the door, more of habit then necessity, and stripped.

The bellringer carefully untied his belt and neatly laid a clean shirt and pants next to the drying cloth. The soap lathered poorly, but he soon had enough to begin washing. He started with the back of his neck where the skin folded on itself, the roughness of the cloth causing him to smile blissfully. It felt good, he couldn't help himself.

Continuing down his back and chest, his forearm meeting his face as he scrubbed his opposite shoulder. He scrubbed his arms, noting how the sun had changed his skin to a darker shade of brown. He flexed his arms and smiled, he could take care of himself. What more did he need besides strength and intelligence? He also knew his home, every stone and every passage. He was safer here than anywhere else.

Quasimodo set his right foot onto the table to wash his leg, then repeated with the left. Only his toes remained to be washed off. They were also the smelliest, since his shoes needed replacing. He washed them, then stood facing the ground. Not much water had been spilt, yet he knew it couldn't stay on the floor. Wrapping the drying cloth around himself, he walked to the other side of the room for a rag to throw onto the floor. The door was ajar.

Quasimodo knelt down and mopped up the soapy water with a soiled and torn green garment, then rose to retrieve his pants. As he did so he caught a glance of himself in the small shaving mirror Frollo had given him. Terror crept over his face. Behind him stood a figure in armor, sword drawn and ready to strike. The bellringer quickly turned around and grasped the arm of his assailant. The figure struck him in the chest with its boot, Quasimodo coughed but did not let go. He slowly twisted the arm until the sword dropped to the ground, then backed his attacker to the wall. He placed his foot firmly on the hilt of the sword. The man was clothed in dark brown from head to toe and the pale candlelight did nothing to reveal his features.

"Why do you come here?" Quasimodo barked at the man, whom he held against the wall. The man did not answer. He hung limp before the terrible Hercules that held him.

"Leave, now."

The figure suddenly bent over, Quasimodo ducked in response. Quasimodo felt a gust of wind above him, a sword that barely missed his head and stung his shoulder. The bellringer threw the first man against the wall and quickly drew the sword from under his foot and sliced it in a wide arc before him, his towel untying and falling on the floor as he did so. He saw the scream of the second attacker as he fell to the ground. The figure retreated, Quasimodo heaved a sigh of relief, then felt a sharp pang in his right side. Two figures fled through the wooden door.

He checked his room, and finding it empty, locked the door. He leaned against the door, his fist to his heart, blood dripping over him. Two swords lay on the floor among faint splatters of blood. He hastily wiped the blades and placed them in the umbrella stand by the door, which he was not sure why he even had. The blood on the floor would have to wait.

Quasimodo sat, shaking and wrapped in another clean towel, on his bed. Blood ran down his shoulders, at which point he realized he'd been struck twice. The sword had missed his head, but skimmed his back and left a tear in his skin. He couldn't see it, but felt it with his fingers. The pang in his side had also left a mark, a dagger had been driven through the layer of fat covering his ribs. Using clean water he washed his wounds as best as he could, then dressed himself hurriedly. Arming himself with a newly-lighted torch, he stepped into the belltower and made his way to the church below.

As Quasimodo walked through the cloisters, he felt the presence of another. He turned around, his eye tracing the movement of a man in the darkness.

"Ho! Who goes there!"

Quasimodo could only wait as the figure approached. He relaxed, it was Phoebus. A bloody, scared and distressed Phoebus. He began to babble at the bellringer, who walked off toward a small room in the Church and lit a few candles. Phoebus repeated what he had started to say.

"We have to leave now, Quasi. Our lives are being targeted, as are those of the gypsies and all who help them. I don't know what has happened to you, but I've not been able to sit still since Durand arrived this morning. They swore they were going to kill you first."

"They failed." Phoebus looked at Quasimodo's bloodied arm and hump.

"How did they get in?" Quasimodo shrugged. Only he climbed the walls of the Cathedral.

"There are two horses in the Court of Miracles, waiting for us. I'm leaving immediately to find reinforcements and am not leaving without you." Quasimodo opened his mouth to argue but was met with Phoebus' look of concern. "You stay here, you will be killed. You come with me, you help defend the city once more and perhaps live to see another day."

"What about the bells? Carmen?" Quasimodo paused "Perhaps?"

"Are you with me?" Phoebus begged. "There are very few whom I can trust, nobody who will leave their post to fight this Minister. You will, won't you?" The bellringer looked unsure.

"Gabriel is dead. It's just Carmen and her Mum. They can't stay alone; Carmen loves me."

"And you will have her see you killed? Quasi, come with me. Clopin will look after Carmen for you in the Court of Miracles. Esmeralda can help her find her feet. It is the safest place."

"Sanctuary?"

"Suspended. There is nowhere to go, Quasi. The only safe place is the Court of Miracles.

It was after much convincing that Phoebus had Quasimodo agree to go with him. He remained reluctant despite his agreement. He returned to the belltower for a few moments as Phoebus left to ready the horses.

The bellringer gently removed the Carmen, Esmeralda and his self-figure from his model village. He placed them into a small bag with some cheese, a few dried sausages, some stale rolls and a few flints. He hung the bag from the hand of a gargoyle and climbed into the belfry.

Quasimodo leaned forward onto Big Marie, the cool bronze feeling good on his aching head. He'd never left the bells before. Knowing the time and what Durand would soon discover, he put his girls into motion one last time.

The citizens of Paris awoke as the bells pealed, knowing that they were early. Phoebus held his hand to his forehead. Why in the hell would Quasimodo do such a stupid thing? He was announcing to Durand he was still alive, the soldiers would be there any moment to finish the job.

Esmeralda and Phoebus stood next to the Cathedral. Snowball and Achilles were packed and ready to leave.

By the time the bells settled from their pealing, the bellringer stood on the cobbles, holding the reins of the horse that would take him out of Paris. Esmeralda promised Quasimodo that Carmen would be brought safely to the court of Miracles the following morning. The bellringer blushed as Esmeralda embraced him and kissed him goodbye.

Esmeralda threw herself onto Phoebus, hugging and kissing him through falling tears, then watched as he vaulted onto Achilles. Quasimodo didn't know what the next few weeks would bring, only that it would be like nothing he had ever experienced before. To Phoebus it was adventure, to himself it was terrifying. The bellringer and the gypsy beauty exchanged several glances and looks, which clearly meant something between them. Phoebus looked on, dumbfounded. It was like they were brother and sister.

Esmeralda stood by Phoebus' side. As Phoebus moved Achilles away, Esmeralda reached out with her fingertips. Quasimodo watched as they slid off of Phoebus' hands. Phoebus gently kissed her fingertips as they drifted away. He looked up at her smiling, the most heart wrenching smile she had ever seen. Quasi's eyelids held back a river of tears, yet his expression told everything. He wouldn't even get to say goodbye to Carmen. It wasn't fair. Esmeralda and Phoebus were again too caught up in each other to notice Quasi's pain.

Phoebus rode up beside Quasi, signaling for him mount the black horse & ride off with him. Esmeralda watched as the two men disappear into the darkness. Captain Phoebus on a tall white horse and Quasimodo, the bellringer of Notre Dame, rode Snowball. Esmeralda held a small misshapen wooden figure in her hands and clasped it to her chest.

Carmen awoke not sure of the time. It was sunny and bright out, but the sound of bells failed to reach her ears. In fact, all of Paris awoke to a distress call. However, it was not until the masses began to leave their homes and walk about on the street did they notice the body of a young man, flayed as if a lamb, laying in the square.

People flocked around the body, mumbling superstitions and death omens. It wasn't a good sign. Claude Frollo had never left bodies out after his kills, the streets were clean and the Seine full after his massacres.

Elsa and Carmen panicked as they passed the corpse; Elsa cried with terror as they arrived in Notre Dame for mass. Two women, living alone, in one house was not a bright idea. A student would be useful, a strong lad from the University. Then there was the shop to look after. Carmen could never handle it, being a member of the weaker sex. Elsa's mind drifted. It would be best to sell the shop and move to the country. There would be argument from Carmen, as she would not want to leave her bellringer. Yet she knew what was best; she had better know, she'd raised the child.

It was on the way into Notre Dame where The Archdeacon caught up with Elsa and Carmen. He spoke his condolences, then pulled the pair aside.

"The city is not as safe as it once was," stated the priest, "you and your daughter should not be alone, especially during such a difficult time".

"That is easily taken care of. We will be moving to Rouen after we sell the shop."

The Archdeacon was flabbergasted. Did Carmen actually agree to this? She must have, logically. Quasimodo, having set his heart on Carmen, would surely be devastated.

"It would be a shame to give up everything that Gabriel worked so hard for, Mademoiselle. To think that everyone has settled into Paris, only to leave a few months later? The trip would be long and uncertain. Here, there are friends and neighbors." Elsa looked unmoved. "Your daughter, she is so young. For her to have just set her roots down and to have to leave where she is comfortable." Elsa shook her head in dismay.

"I know where you are going, Father. You wish me to renege on my decision, to allow my daughter to stay here and become wife to that bellringer. It will not work; I will not have him in my family."

"See with your heart, Mademoiselle. I know the bellringer personally, he is a good friend of mine, a good man with good morals and a good heart. He has nothing but love and respect for your daughter and would do everything in his power to look after her. What is to happen to her if something should happen to you and she is left alone? She loves him. Let them be together."

"You talk well, yet my decision has been made. We will be moving to Rouen and will think of Paris no more."

Mass was long and the populace unfocused, few citizens actually heard the sermon. All eyes and ears were out for any word on the killing. No one knew the man, he was a gypsy, yet knew something horrible was now brewing. Friends of the bellringer noticed the silence of the belfry and that he was not at mass, either.

Elsa sat alone in her thoughts throughout the morning.

She had watched as her daughter frequented Notre Dame, meeting with Quasimodo constantly. They had spent far too much time together, either in the Cathedral or in the city. There was no getting rid of the bellringer; both Quasimodo and Carmen had decided he was now part of the family. It was good he was gone. Perhaps she would forget about him altogether.

Esmeralda sat in the sermon, alone, watching for Carmen and Elsa to pass by. They never did.

Esmeralda arrived at Carmen's home to find it empty. She looked about the kitchen, seeing only a piece of paper and a quill on the table. She cursed out loud. They were useless to her. Besides, to write down where the men had gone would put everyone in danger. The longer it remained secret the better.

As Esmeralda was about to leave, a tearful Carmen arrived at the door. Esmeralda stood there, not able to say much. The two stared at each other for a brief moment. Only when Elsa arrived was the silence broken.

"Who are you?" Elsa snapped.

Esmeralda said nothing, merely pulling a wooden figure from her dress pocket. Elsa was indifferent. Carmen's expression went from one of fear to wanting to know everything as soon as her eyes rested on it.

"Quasimodo will be back soon, Phoebus always returns." Carmen still looked worried. "I've known Quasi a long time. He's not about to give up on anything or anyone, he's tough & knows it."

"Then he could have stayed."

"It wasn't the attacks, it was that he knew he was endangering us by staying. He will be back, you'll see. There is too much here for him not to return. His friends, his home and you."

"What attack? Tell me! Is he going to be alright? Where is he? Please! Tell me!" Carmen blurred the words together. Tears streamed down her face.

Esmeralda looked down at the ground for a brief moment. "The city isn't safe. Phoebus and Quasimodo have asked for you to stay in the Court of Miracles."

"What of the attacks?" Carmen cut in.

"It didn't look too bad. He's tough. Leaving you was hard for him."

" …the bells. I know I will cry if I hear them ring."

"Only Quasimodo rings the bells, the Archdeacon has made that quite clear."

The bells silent. To not hear them was no different than another, or rather group of others, ring them. Carmen remembered hanging off a rope and still not being able to set a bell in motion.

"Come with me, we have much to talk about." Esmeralda led Carmen out of the house. Elsa looked on, blankly. She closed all the doors to the house. No one would get in while she was alone.

Elsa mounted Rose and left in the direction Carmen and Esmeralda had walked off too. There were fires being set, she wanted them home. After sunset, who knew what horrible things would happen, the night would be dark. Rain was fast approaching and was sure to continue. The old woman shouted at Rose, who tore off at a full gallop out of Paris.

Rose galloped steadily, up and down the small hills away from Ile de la Cite. Horse and wagon tore past the large tree, the fields of cows, sheep, hay and grain. The Seine and towers of Notre Dame were soon disappearing from view.

Elsa rode across the final bridge out of Paris, Rose's hooves echoed out on the cobbles. Water splashed up as her feet struck the small puddles. The clouds opened up and began to let out small droplets of rain that soon made every cobble glisten in the remaining daylight

As she rode past the closing city gates, an arrow went though her chest, felling her outside the city. She passed away soon after, leaving nothing but a trail of blood behind her. Rose ran off toward freedom, the harness in tatters.

A cowardly limping fool walked the streets of Paris early the following morning, en route to his puppet wagon. A red horse wandered the streets, wearing a torn bridle. He caught the mare and continued on his way.

As he crept through the streets in the early morning light, he heard a bell ring. Clopin looked up to the tower of Notre Dame. When he turned the last corner into the square he saw his wagon reduced to a pile of ashes.

Clopin felt into his bag, his hands touching the many puppets within it. Never before had the puppet show been attacked. It was for the children, something most people respected. Clopin stood at the pile of ashes, staring into what had been is income for the past three years.

The children slowly gathered around Clopin, looking for their puppeteer and puppet show. What they found was a tall gypsy, bag of puppets in hand, staring down onto the cobbles. Clopin soon decided it was hopeless to stay out in the open, so turned back toward the Court of Miracles. The horse suddenly pulled away from him and toward a distressed Carmen.

"Elsa didn't come home last night! She took Rose, neither have returned. They always come back on time! Where could she be?"

Clopin stared in disbelief. What was he to do? He was of no relation to her. There was panic, distress and concern in her voice. He looked into her eyes, gypsy eyes. She was a member of his tribe, now and forever. Quasimodo wanted it, as did Esmeralda. Carmen would come to the Court, nomatter how much she protested. Should Elsa return, she would return home immediately. Otherwise? Clopin had not yet decided.

There was nothing glamorous about the walk to Court of Miracles, nor the place itself. The people were strange to her, she only knew Esmeralda and Clopin and had met them briefly. She had done the wrong thing, she never should have spoken to Clopin. Now she had a small crowd gathered around her, staring.

A beautiful young gypsy woman, with a cloud of black hair, soon stepped out of the crowd. La Esmeralda smiled at her and touched her hand.

"This way, Carmen."

Dante and Esmeralda followed.


	10. Part 9

**Part 9**

Esmeralda brushed Carmen's hair and began to brain in some tinsel. As she brushed she inquired about Carmen's skills, which she found were cleaning, carpentry, horse riding and music. Esmeralda scratched her head at the combination. Baffled, she tied a blue silk scarf around Carmen's head then stepped back to admire the gypsy that stood before her.

Carmen looked at her long hair unbound with tinsel and colours braided into it, brightly coloured dress and bare feet. It was fun, certainly, but not her. She didn't feel herself. Her plain dress, her secured braid and brown leather shoes is what she belonged in.

Humouring Esmeralda, she walked throughout the court in gypsy garb. She got a few admiring looks, which brought an uneasiness upon her. What would Quasimodo say were he to know other men were staring at her, hoping to catch a peek of an ankle as she walked past.

Esmeralda tried teaching Carmen to dance, yet after several falls she gave up. The new gypsy was hopelessly clumsy, had no rhythm with her feet and was painful to watch.

Esmeralda soon learned that Carmen's cooking ability consisted of bread and soup, there was nothing else she could make well. It was not likely that Quasimodo, having lived mainly off bread and water for twenty years, would mind. However, Esmeralda swore to herself to have Carmen know how to cook a decent meal before she married her friend. It wasn't just for Quasi either, it was for her own well-being. Not being able to cook was senseless.

Carmen soon got sick of walking, sick of the Court and sick of being alone. She missed her parents, Danté and Quasimodo. Esmeralda seemed to be keeping her as busy as possible, trying to get them from her mind. Images of them continually danced through her mind despite Esmeralda's efforts.

It was not long until Carmen tossed and turned in her bed, with a never-ending feeling that she was being watched. The tall man in the black robe was gone, but she shivered at the thought of him. Should he come, there was no one to run to, as Quasimodo was far away by now. For the best, she supposed. He was a target of the new Justice and an attempt had already been made on his life.

Carmen turned over in her bed and cried into her pillow. As she closed her eyes tightly, she pictured him the day she had first seen him. The belltower empty, the bells silent. She fingered the knife that lay near her bed, Quasimodo's carving knife that had found it's way into her pocket. She never returned it and never regretted it.

The day soon came when Esmeralda realized Carmen would never be a gypsy. She would be one of the family, due to her relationship with Quasi, but could not adapt to life as a gypsy. Esmeralda was saddened by it, yet knew Carmen would be a loyal friend if nothing else.

* * *

The Captain and the bellringer rode until nightfall, where they camped out in a small clearing. Quasimodo had refused to stay at an inn and Phoebus had obliged him, there would be many nights where staying outside would not be an option. Phoebus gathered a pile of sticks and started a small fire, the bellringer asleep by the time the heat was enough to warm the two men.

Phoebus stirred the coals with a long stick late into the night. He kept track of time by watching Quasimodo, who would wake up every three hours, look around, then fall back asleep. Phoebus only napped briefly. He could tell the bellringer was restless, he'd left everything he'd known on orders, he'd left the girl he wished to marry. Phoebus remembered back to when Esmeralda had first went away without him, it had torn at his heart in the worst way imaginable. Quasimodo had said nothing, in fact, he had only asked to stay here for the night rather than the next town at the inn.

Morning came, they rode on and night fell once more. They slept near the river. The following morning, Phoebus washed in the river. After some convincing, Quasimodo joined him. He didn't remove his shirt, but waded in to his hips, not enjoying the cold water. Quasimodo shaved carefully, Phoebus just shook his head. The behaviour of the bellringer was something he would never understand.

As the days and nights wore on, Phoebus learned that the bellringer refused to sleep at an inn unless there was rain and even then required considerable prodding. Phoebus longed to spend more nights in the taverns and inns getting drunk and having fun as he had before meeting Esmeralda. He would never have any other girl, yet longed to cut loose in the environment of a tavern. It was a fun way of life, something Quasimodo was sure to enjoy as well. The nature of their mission did not rule out the good times that could be had along the way. It was likely Quasimodo would ever leave Paris again after this; there would not be another chance.

Nearly two weeks after leaving, Phoebus got his wish. Having arrived at an inn with Vodka and real Irish whisky, he convinced Quasimodo to take the plunge and have a few little drinks to "toast to the luck of our journey" and "here's to our women".

Quasimodo soon got lost in the number of toasts to ships, horses, women and wars. Then he could no longer understand what was happening around him. His head spun around in circles, he lost his inhibitions and fears. He put his arm over Phoebus and the pair of them joined the rest of the patrons in a loud drinking song. Phoebus seemed to know all the words, Quasimodo just mumbled along.

Quasi passed out some time during the song and woke up outside the tavern, propped up against the tavern wall, covered in an old blanket. Phoebus sat near his head, laughing at him. Quasimodo lifted his head from under the blanket and stared up at the five Phoebus' that surrounded him. His head crashed back onto the ground and a feeing of nausea grasped his stomach and spinning head.

Phoebus' laughter pounded in his head, causing him to wretch. Where was the fun in this?

The bellringer carefully got to his feet and dusted himself off. A big black nose met his face, Snowball looking for treats. Quasimodo stepped back, knowing how unsteady his feet were and how far from the ground Snowballs back seemed. He grasped the reins in his shaking hand and walked along behind the gallant Captain Phoebus on his tall white stallion. The thoughts in his mind were mean, nasty thoughts. Thoughts he would never had allowed in any other circumstance.

Phoebus looked behind him only to see Quasimodo leading the great Snowball. There was something seriously wrong with the picture that met his eyes. It wasn't the greenness of Quasimodo's face, the fact that his clothes were filthy nor the lipstick stains on his face. There was something else that glared out at him. Snowball followed in Achilles' tracks in a straight line, as did Quasimodo. His hangover had taken away his limp.

Later on that day, both men rode abreast through a field. Phoebus was the first to speak.

"Sorry to laugh at you, Quasi. I just never figured you had it in you."

"What?" Quasimodo's right eyebrow lifted, his voice unsure.

"Have you even seen yourself this morning? You look like hell, Quasi."

"…and?" The bellringer was confused.

"You don't remember Michelle, Celine or Cecile?"

"Who? You're fooling, Phoebus. I'd never do such a thing." There was a long pause, Quasimodo stared down at Snowballs neck. "You are, aren't you?"

"This will never go any farther than us, Quasi. It's between us guys."

"Oh no!" Quasi's face went blank, he was at a loss for further words. There was nothing else to say. Phoebus continued to talk as they rode.

"You were quite forward with Cecile, especially. She really liked you. You've got some good jokes too, my friend. Really, Quasi, you do. Talking gargoyles? Whoa. Just where do you come up with such nonsense?" Phoebus laughed as he trotted Achilles onward. Quasimodo gritted his teeth and swore he'd never get drunk again. Just what had he said? Apparently it had all been terribly funny.

Snowball tossed his head, eager to catch up to Achilles. He was soon carrying the bellringer across a field of poppies toward Captain Phoebus.

It was at a crossroads where Phoebus and Quasimodo would part ways. Phoebus was riding southeast to meet up with his old war buddies. Quasimodo would ride south to rest and avoid getting drunk. They agreed to meet up in a few days.

The evening sun was setting as the two men rode into a nearby tavern to spend the night. It would be one of their few nights in beds since leaving Paris.

Eight men sat around the table, drinking beer and tearing roast meat with their teeth. Quasi had rarely tasted such greasy, tough meat. The last time he'd eaten such food was when Frollo had been his only human contact, not a happy memory. He ate it anyway.

Having tired of Phoebus' war stories and bragging about battle wounds, Quasimodo walked back to his quarters. He gazed up at the lone bell in a simple church. One small, lonely bell. Something in him longed to pull it's rope, to make it sound out. He missed Notre Dame, his bells, his friends and Paris. He missed Carmen. Sweet and smart, yet more naiive than he'd ever been. Her imagination? Was her seeing what troubled her much different than the gargoyles?

Quasimodo soon left to visit Snowball who was quietly munching on some hay. It was wet and smelled like mouldy bread. Carmen would scold him if she knew what he was feeding a horse, yet Snowball seemed not to care. He reached out his nose and nuzzled Quasimodo's cheek leaving a trail of green-gray slobber. Quasimodo gently rubbed either side of his neck with his large hands, ruffling his mane in with his own, which had faded slightly.

Quasimodo stepped into the darkness of the stall and began to pray. No one would be out here, it was a safe place. He spared the patrons the sight of himself. Then again, perhaps they really didn't care. Many of them were missing various body parts. Nearly every man was missing teeth or had lost either an eye, an arm or a leg. The cook was humpbacked, though not like himself and could not walk without use of a cane. None looked in good health.

Not so long ago he had left Paris with Phoebus. Now, he was alone in a stable after sharing a meal with some of Phoebus's old war buddies. Would Esmeralda have chosen Phoebus over himself if Phoebus had been one of these men?

Quasimodo soon cleared his mind and began to pray in silence. Growing up in a Cathedral he was brought up with strong faith, yet at that moment his faith was stronger. He realized that he was alone, he had not been in Notre Dame for three weeks. The beginning of this journey had been enjoyable, traveling with Phoebus and seeing new places he never thought possible. Riding Snowball, getting drunk for the first time, swimming naked in a cold river. Now he only wanted to return home, yet at the same time knew he must find what he left to find. He was scared. He only prayed for everything to turn out OK and to be able to return to Paris as soon as possible.

Snowball laid down in his small stall, Quasimodo sat down beside him in the straw, leaning against his back with his arm around his thick neck. Snowball lay quiet as Quasimodo fell asleep.

The next morning Quasimodo rode one way, Phoebus the other. They would be meeting again shortly. Quasimodo rode gently through the fields and valleys on well-worn paths. Phoebus allowed Achilles, war horse extraordinaire, to stretch out at the gallop and cover the ground with great speed.

* * *

George lay drunk on the tavern floor in a pool of his own blood and teeth, his purse empty and his clothes gone. The night before had not gone as planned, he'd been caught riding a wench that was not his. The husband just happened to be a skilled fighter much younger than himself. Clots of blood dripped from his beard as he staggered to his feet.

He continued to wretch as he stepped outside the doors, the bright sunlight burned his eyes. George's stomach churned, his stomach emptying it's contents into the street. His knees grew weak as he stared at the multicoloured puddle that lay before him and fell forward into it.

A pack of mangy dogs approached the fallen man. They encircled him, moving closer with each step. George watched as the lead female walked up to his face and began to lick up the trails of vomit. Growls surrounded George as the number of dogs increased, having found a hearty meal. Afraid to move, George lay on his side dry-heaving.

Hooves thundered down the main street, toward the tavern. The rider's uniform and armor reflected the morning rays, making his appear as if Apollo atop a white stallion. His cape flapped behind him, billowing out in a cloud. The horse snorted as it approached the group of dogs, which scattered at the sight of the approaching rider.

The rider halted his horse, it's hooves turning up clouds of dust inches from the face of the man on the ground. The rider urged his horse on, the horse stepped forward. The rider bent over from the saddle, looked into the eyes of the man on the ground and laughed.

"I left you here a year ago, have you found nothing better to do with your life?"

George turned his face upward and met with the eyes of the Captain. "Do I know you?"

"Soldier. To your feet."

"Yes, sir!" George stood up rapidly, then fell back down again. He returned to his feet slower the second time, saluting his Captain. "At your service, Sir."

"I know you have not been at war for some time, old friend, but I have come for your assistance."

"I am ready, mon Capitain."

"Good. Now, soldier. Find some pants and a horse and we shall ride out."

George mounted his mule and rode of silently with Phoebus.

"Where are we going, Captain Phoebus?"

"To assemble an army, Lieutenant. Paris is in danger and I need your help."

"You have done well, Captain Phoebus. Captain of the Kings Guard and myself a drunkard. Tell me, Phoebus, why do you need my help?"

"Of all the men I've fought with, you were always the one who pulled though."

"You mean the only one who is still alive and able to fight, Captain."

"This is also true." Phoebus laughed. "The new Minister of Justice is as mad as the last. He is ordering soldiers to arrest and execute the Gypsies of Paris and shows no mercy towards women or children. He will be unstoppable if things continue, as he has brought in soldiers loyal to Frollo. Sanctuary is no longer safe, they burst right into the church to remove any criminal, or suspect criminal, from within Notre Dame."

"I never cared for gypsies, Captain Phoebus. They smell bad, their food is strange and I was once tricked out of a horse by a gypsy named Clopin Trouillifou. I don't suppose you know him?"

"The point is, George, that innocents are being harmed and I need you to help me gather enough together to fight for Paris. Quasimodo and I rode far to reach you. It's not just for the gypsies, but for Paris."

"Who is this Quasimodo? Was he in service with you at some time?"

"He's a good friend of mine, not a soldier but very strong in mind and body. I left him behind to come and find you here. His life is in as much danger as my own."

"Phoebus! What have you done to put yourself in such danger?"

"I refused to arrest my wife."

"Ah. So the stories I heard are true. You did marry a gypsy wench. Tell me, is she as beautiful as I've heard?"

"She is a Goddess, Lieutenant. I love her beyond anything else in this world."

"For that, Phoebus, I will help you. A beautiful wench is worth fighting for." George tapped his heels to his mule. "This way to glory, Phoebus! Your soldiers lay over the next six miles of road with their families, raising crops and growing children."


	11. Part 10

**Part 10**

The home was small and friendly, surrounded by small gardens. Some chickens pecked the ground, stirring up cow pats and horse manure for their feed. Quasimodo rode by in silence, then on impulse turned Snowball around. It was late, he would ask for shelter here.

While riding toward the house, Quasimodo caught sight of a man walking toward the gate in a familiar brown, hooded robe. He was a monk. This would be a place that would welcome him, perhaps with open arms. The monk opened the gate for Quasimodo to ride through. He did not ask where he came from, who he was or why he wished to enter; he merely opened the gate. Quasimodo saluted, then greeted the monk in Anglais. The monk nodded in acknowledgement and closed the gate after Quasimodo was through. The hunchback dismounted, lowered his hooded cloak and followed the monk to a paddock where Snowball was turned loose.

The monk began to speak once the horse was eating and the bridle hung on the gatepost.

"You traveled far, stranger. You must be famished. Come, warm yourself by our fire and then tell us of your travels over our evening meal."

Quasimodo obeyed the monk, who spoke only in Anglais. The monk sat him down near a simple fireplace and brought him a cup of hot tea. Although he cared not for the bitter taste, he drank it thankfully. In a short while he felt the approach of others, doubtlessly curious about the strange traveler who had just arrived in their midst. Through the glares of the fire on their hooded faces he could discern that they were somewhat leery of him, yet did not feel threatened. They soon left him in silence.

While staring into the depths of his mug, Quasimodo felt a warm hand on his arm. He jumped slightly at the sight of the young monk so close to his face. The monk was not frightened, not in the least bit. He smiled at him, as if he knew Quasimodo personally.

"Our meal is ready. Please join us, it would be an honour."

Quasimodo looked up in puzzlement, then arose from his seat by the fire. The monk walked beside him to the hall where dinner was waiting. About twenty monks sat at a long rough-hewn table. Before each of them sat a wooden bowls of soup, plates of rolls and great mugs of beer. Seven candles burned along the tables length, illuminating the many faces of the monks. He was guided to an empty chair, where he sat down to pray with the others. The bowl was larger, the bread accompanied with cheese. One monk spoke up softly.

"It would be best if our guest were to say the evening prayer."

It was a cruel trick, thought Quasimodo. Fortunately, he knew what was appropriate. He nodded, then bowed his misshapen head, closed both eyes and began to speak softly in Latin. He spoke the prayer he had learned from Brother Daniel in Notre Dame ten years previous. The monks prayed with him. Afterward, they lifted back their robes to reveal their faces so that they may eat.

Quasimodo looked around the table at the faces of the men. Only one was familiar to him, that of the Archdeacon of Notre Dame, who smiled at him briefly and raised his mug.

The evening meal went by in silence. Afterward, the old Archdeacon asked him to walk out to the gardens with him, to which Quasimodo obliged.

"Dear Quasimodo. How I have missed you. I never thought I would see your face again. And now, to have you arrive here on horseback on a cold September evening. The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"Do you not miss Paris and Notre Dame?"

"Only the sound of the bells, Quasimodo. If you were to ring ours just once, I'd be more than grateful." The old Archdeacon sat down on a bench and laid his cane in the grass. Quasimodo sat down beside him. "Tell me, what has happened in Paris that brings you here? Also, I simply must know. How is it that you came to ride a horse?"

"Captain Phoebus taught me."

"On that horse? Surely you must tell me more."

"Not on Snowball, no."

"Why are you here?"

"Phoebus."

"He alone brings you here? Surely you are not telling me everything."

Quasimodo nodded. "Once again, Paris is not safe, nor is Sanctuary. Minister Durand has taken Masters, I mean Frollo's, position. Sanctuary has been suspended. The new Archdeacon agreed with my friends to send me away, for the safety of them and the members of the Church, I obliged."

"This is a serious matter, we will discuss it tomorrow. First, tell me about this young woman."

The old Archdeacon smiled as Quasimodo told him how Carmen had arrived in Paris in March and how he had gotten to know her. The old Archdeacon became dismayed when he spoke of the death of her family and how Carmen's baby brother who had been lost in the chase may be him, which would shatter yet another relationship for the bellringer. No other record would remain of her mother except in the memories of her tribe. He then told him how Carmen claimed to see things in the Cathedral he couldn't. He told him about the New Archdeacon, the arrival of Minister Durand and the search for a relation to Frollo. He did not mention opening his study.

"We have much to talk about. Surely it was God's will to bring you here. Come, let us go inside where there are fewer insects and more beer." The two men stepped inside, one limping alongside the other. The old man filled two mugs then sat with Quasimodo before the fire.

"First thing, Quasimodo, I know of the family you speak of. Monsieur Poivre was a good friend of the church, as was his cousin though I forget her name. They befriended a family of gypsies as well, possibly the family of the girl you speak of. You were already in Frollo's care for three years when this young woman's mother was killed, so she cannot be your sister. One of the men Frollo captured referred to an older girl child, so it remains possible you have an older sister. However, it is not this woman named Carmen."

Quasimodo filled the Archdeacon's beer.

"Also, this woman may not be lunatic, Quasimodo. Notre Dame is old and full of secrets; you of anyone should know that. Her eyes may show her things most can't see just as your ears hear what others miss. I would say that it is quite possible she sees what she says she does. On many occasions I have also caught sight of a moving shadow, felt a cold draft grasp my arm, an unearthly voice praying for good fortune and wealth." The old man nodded to the window. "It is quite possible."

Quasimodo slowly nodded off to sleep, and was soon awaken by the old Archdeacon and led to a cell with a soft bed with warm quilts. A pitcher of water and basin sat on a simple table with a towel, ball of soap and a rag. He guided the sleepy bellringer into bed and stepped out of the room. A small tear formed in his eye. Everything had come full circle at last.

The next morning Quasimodo explained the search for a connection between Frollo and the new minister and the attack that had been made on him. The old Archdeacon had little to say in this regard, but seemed to have something else on his mind.

The bellringer was encouraged by the monks to stay a while before continuing his journey. He rang the bells and helped out around the monastery, as his strength easily quadrupled that of any of the monks. The bells were not as grand as those in Notre Dame, yet Quasimodo took great pleasure in making them sing pretty melodies for the few brothers. In return he slept in a soft bed, ate good food, drank strong beer and relaxed into his normal self. The past few weeks of travel had made him somewhat weary; in the company of the old archdeacon and some fellow churchmen, he was more at ease.

The Archdeacon also spent a lot of time getting to know him. He became aware that for twenty years an intelligent mind had been living above him unnoticed and forgotten. The old man was pleased to know the bellringer had read all the books he had been left with him. He also saw Quasimodo's scars and realized the fear Frollo had instilled in him. Ten years of service and he'd never gotten to know him. The old man now fed Quasimodo, spent time with him and prayed for him more than ever. He deserved to find what it was he was looking for, deserved to have the girl that had fallen in love with him. More than anything, Quasimodo deserved to be happy. For once, it seemed possible that he would live like an ordinary man.

Five days later, the Archdeacon ensured Quasimodo was well fed, then sent him on his way east with a weeks provisions and a promise that something was waiting for him. The two men shook hands, the Archdeacon hugged him firmly. He knew the Lord had sent him here for one last goodbye. The Archdeacon smiled, he'd done a good thing 21 years ago, though at times he'd had doubts.

Quasimodo rode over the rolling dales until sunset when he caught site of the small home the Archdeacon had mentioned. He cautiously rode down the sloping ridge and to the shack, where he tied Snowball to a tree. He pulled the hood off his head as he had been told by the monks and knocked on the door lightly.

The door slowly swung open, an old man sat on a blanketed chair near a small fire.

"Good evening, monsieur?" Quasimodo reminded himself to speak English only, something that bothered him significantly.

The old man stiffened on hearing Quasimodo's voice, then turned around.

"Heavens above!" The old man shouted as jumped from his seat with a sudden burst of energy and rapidly backed away from the door of his shack.

"Monsieur?" asked the bellringer, not sure what to make of the scene before him. The old man merely backed away slightly, the blood drained from him face. He was white.

"It could only be you!" Quasimodo watched as the old man approached him, his palm outstretched toward Quasimodo's face. He said nothing other than "It could only be you… The monk knew, he knew…" his words trailed off. He did not touch the bellringer, he merely stared at him for a few moments before inviting him in.

"I never thought I'd see you again." He looked at Quasimodo once more. And two streams of tears began to flow down his face. He laughed through his tears and stared at Quasimodo "The Archdeacon shared stories with me, I didn't believe him! You've come home! Then again, you were a survivor as a babe."

Quasimodo didn't know what to say. This man was raving about him, showed no fear whatsoever. "As a babe? You knew my mother?"

The old man's eyes sparkled a brilliant blue. "Know her? My good man, I was her husband."

The bellringer merely stood at the door, dumbfounded. "You knew my mother? Were you there the night Frollo…" Quasimodo corrected himself, this was not the time to bring up his mother's death. "What happened, from the beginning?"

The old man motioned for Quasi to enter his wooden home, sitting him at the rough-hewn table. "The monks told me everything about you, everything you've done for them and Notre Dame. They tried to tell me who you were, I didn't believe it was really you; after all these years, I'd given you up for dead years ago. My son! You are home at last!"

The old man was stooped over from old age. He poured boiling water into the teapot. "From the beginning, ye say? That's quite a lot to ask of an old man. I will start at the beginning, but first, what do I call you?"

"Kasimodo"

"Interesting name. Is it French?"

"Latin."

"Aye" Quasimodo watched as the man fiddled with cups and spoons on his shelf. "You call me Byrand."

Quasimodo stared at the man before him, a sack of bones that had suddenly regained all strength. It was no longer any wonder where he got his red hair and blue eyes from, the old man's hair still had shocks of bright red and his eyes remained a piercing blue. The man showed no fear of him whatsoever, which was highly unusual.

The old man passed him a cup of tea and sat down across from him, shifting his stare between his tea and Quasimodo.

Byrand saw the skepticism in Quasimodo's face and continued. "It was written down somewhere, if I've remembered where I put it. Marcus insisted I tell him what was said, as to protect against bad memory. Nonsensical, really. Where was that? Just let me think back for a moment."

The man searched his hovel, then pulled a small piece of parchment off of his shelf. There was not much else on the shelf besides dust and old nails. He unrolled the scroll as he returned to his seat. He retained something in his hand that had slid out of it.

"If you'll forgive me, my letters are slow and my sight isn't what it used to be. I don't suppose you know letters, son?"

"I will try." He could not yet call the man "father".

Flattening the corners of the page, Quasimodo glanced over the sheet quickly, then read it in silence."

_Blue for clear wisdom_

_Your child possesses_

_Behold the temper_

'_Neath his red tresses_

_Strong will, strong heart_

_His mind will not fail_

_When fate is decided_

_Your son will prevail_

_One score and one_

_Though time may drag on_

_He'll find his salvation _

_In a broken song_

_Past one score distant_

_The voice will stand silent_

_Your son will return_

_The thunders' voice migrant_"

The old man unclasped his hand to reveal a lock of hair tied with a brightly coloured and beaded string. "If any doubt remains in your mind, see if it matches"

Quasimodo didn't bother with the hair, but noted the size of the hand it lay on. He reached out with his opposite hand and placed it into Byrand's. The size of his palm, the shape of his fingers matched the old man's extremely close. Quasimodo's eyes went from the two hands to the old man's eyes. Suddenly his mind flooded with questions, he didn't know where to start.

"What happened?" He asked softly.

Byrand filled Quasimodo in on the incident with the Badger, several babies in the gypsy camp dying off. Quasimodo learned that he was the only infant to survive the illness that moved through the tribe.

"I was kept alive only by the thought that I would see you again. Shortly afterward, I moved into this shack and here I have remained. The monastery offers some help during the winter, I help them with plant crops and make beer but there have been no other visitors. Many years have passed." The old man paused, his face radiating pure joy and happiness for the first time in years. "My son. You came back."

Quasimodo sat silent, stirring his tea mindlessly. He had been born as any other child, his deformity, his ugliness. He was not created as he was now.

His father looked at him. "You still have those same eyes and your mother's smile. Nothing could ever change those eyes." Quasi thought about the teeth he was missing & reminded himself it was probably just conversation. Then again, he'd never seen his mother.

The evening wore on as the two men talked, then they turned their chairs to the small fireplace. The old man fell asleep. Twice during the night Quasi startled at the lack of noise, the continued silence and lack of bells. A dark shack, damp air and silence with a stranger; he was miles from home and all he ever knew. Yet he now had something that had been lost, he found comfort in that.

Quasimodo remained awake until just before dawn. The man in the chair beside him was his father. At one time he had been loved by parents and had a real name. To learn that name tormented him, yet it would serve no purpose. He became who he was the moment the illness took his body.

The next morning Quasimodo approached Byrand and asked if he would return to Paris with him. He'd come so far and wished to return now that he'd found what he was looking for. The old man agreed to follow for a few days at least and to turn back if the journey became too strenuous. Byrand soon assembled his few possessions and was ready to go.

The two men walked toward the monastery where Byrand was provided with an old donkey and a cloth saddle to ride in. Mounted, Quasimodo and Byrand slowly made their way to the crossroads to await Phoebus' arrival.

Phoebus and George continued to ride through the countryside, gathering old friends and retired soldiers from taverns and farms. Having gained the agreement of close to two hundred men, Phoebus started back to where he had left Quasimodo.

George sat in his saddle quietly, staring at his mount's mane. Phoebus merrily hummed a drinking tune. There was a lot on his mind, yet he knew there was no reason to fret over it now. Esmeralda could take care of herself, Clopin would watch over the Court of Miracles and Durand would have difficulty finding the bellringer in the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly, George's horse jumped. A badger walked around under the bushes, peeking its nose out and then disappearing into the shadows.

The two men rode, with their comrades, toward the crossroads where a small shelter caught their attention. A tall black horse and a donkey grazed nearby. Phoebus looked around for Quasimodo. His eye caught the sight of an old man who kneeled near a small fire, chewing a dried piece of meat, and stirring a pot of what appeared to be oats. The man stared off over the side of the hill. Phoebus followed his gaze.

At the bottom of the hill was a pear tree. Quasimodo dropped out of it, a sack full of what Phoebus could only guess as being fruit. The man on the ground nodded.

"He's been waiting for you. Join us for supper?"

Phoebus could not understand a word of what man said to him. He knew very little English after his years of training. He pulled out his wineskin to take a drink and flagged George up from behind. George rode closer, leaving the men behind him.

"Monsieur, who is it down there that you are watching?"

"My son." Stated the man, nonchalantly

Phoebus choked on his wine, spitting it over the saddle and himself. "Mon Dieu!" George translated what the man said. "I understood that, Lieutenant."

George raised one eyebrow and stared at Phoebus quizzically. "Then if I may ask, Sir, what is it that made you spill your wine? You never in your life spilled any…"

Quasimodo came closer into view and George couldn't help but stare. The man that approached was scary beyond all reason, yet didn't seen to care. He carried his bag of pears and, upon arrival at the camp, set them down and approached Phoebus.

"Good to see you, Phoebus."

"I'm glad to see you too, my friend. George, this is Quasimodo." George nervously took Quasimodo's hand and shook it gently from atop his horse. He continued to stare.

"Phoebus. I suppose you have already met…"

"Not formally, no.

"Byrand, Captain Phoebus." The old man offered his weak hand to the Captain.

"Now that we are together", shouted Phoebus, "Paris awaits us!"

* * *

The same night that Quasimodo arrived at the monastery, Carmen stepped out of her home at sunset. The city was silent, save the odd stranger out for an evening stroll. She began to walk toward Notre Dame.

_The sun has set_

_The people gone_

_The day is past_

'_long with the sun_

_the moon she rises_

_high above_

_in the summer sky_

_hot and hazy_

_all I can do _

_is think of you_

_as the evening wears on_

_long and lazy_

Carmen continued to sing as she arrived in the belly of the Cathedral. Opening the door to the belltower stairs, she continued her song.

_Ev'ry day, the bells ring out_

_My heart breaks in two_

_They peal, they sing_

_In broken harmonies_

_Like the bells, _

_I'm lost without you_

Carmen petted Big Marie, the only bell she could reach without balancing on the beams.

"Dear Marie, do you love him as much as I? Oh! Jacqueline! He has to return!"

Carmen reached the north tower, Quasimodo's home. She picked up a random figure from the model city, then continued to walk through the maze of beams and sculpture.

_Dusty cobwebs everywhere_

_Upon the silent stone_

_Your figures toppled_

_Your wind chimes still_

_Were you once here?_

_Imagine, this a home._

Carmen stood on the top of Notre Dame's north tower and looked out across the city. The sun had just set, the sky was quickly darkening. Carmen looked into the empty streets and cried. The tower was empty, her home was empty. Paris could be likened to a pot ready to boil over; the city was safe for now yet she didn't know how long this would last.

Carmen wandered through the church, when once again fear set into her. She looked above her head where six bells hung in silence. She shivered slightly, tensing her muscles yet remaining still, she couldn't run. There was nothing here, bells, beams, a woodpile and broken sculptures. Nothing in itself frightening. Something called her, she could barely resist the urge to walk toward the far corner of the tower.

"Run, Carmen. Run, or he'll get you too. Run!"

"No one is here. I'm safe." She reasoned. The voice told her different.

"He's here, he will get you."

Carmen began to understand. She stood fast, unable to move; although every muscle in her body clamored to move, to get her out of here.

A bat fluttered through the rafters of the belltower, drawing her attention upward. A tall man stood before her, a priest or so he appeared. The stiffness in her legs released and Carmen fled the tower. The priest watched her fly.

The young woman raced down the stairs out of the belltower. There was no where to go where she felt safe, the one person who made her feel safe was gone.

Carmen ran through the cloisters, her shod feet silent on the marble floor. The rose window cast eerie shadows on the floor, she stood still and watched them. Suddenly, she was grasped from behind. Iron fists forced her wrists to her shoulders and she squirmed.

"You were in the belltower, child. Tell me, what is it that fuels your desire to visit such a dreadful place?" The man paused, twisting her wrists and making her wince. "Is, perchance, that you fancy the bellringer? Isn't it a coincidence, I am also looking for him. My dear, it would be a very good thing if you would tell me his whereabouts."

Carmen stood still. She did not speak. She was in Sanctuary. She was safe.

"You were with him not so long ago, you go to the tower daily. You know where he is. He's a murderer, you know; a dangerous criminal. To refuse his location is grounds for arrest and death by hanging. The guards are here, waiting." Carmen's eyes widened. "There is nothing preventing your arrest, child. Your kind are not welcome in here."

Carmen's mind raced. She was no gypsy, she merely looked like one. She couldn't say a word, partly of fear to say anything that may endanger Quasi and partly out of fear alone.

The man grasped her wrists and dragged her out of Notre Dame, not stopping for the priest that cried out to let her go. She kicked madly and broke free. She bolted down the steps of the church and into the streets. She fell on the cobbles, a tangle of hair and blue cloth, before standing on her feet. Then she ran, ran as if the devil were after her. If she were to be caught, she would never see the belltower, or her beloved, ever again.

Carmen lay down on the cobbles, gasping for breath. Her back and arms throbbed with a dull pain, the stones had cut into her palms and were still numb. She pulled herself up and began to limp toward home, grateful that nothing was broken. Several moments later, she sat down in an alley. The pain was too much for her to continue walking.

When Carmen awoke, it was dark. The moon had come out, yet the sky still spat rain. Carmen stared out into the cold, wet street and then huddled into herself. This was not the place she wanted to be. She could hear the rats in the alleyways and gutter, the dogs barking in the distance and the drip of water off of old leaky roofs.

The lights began to appear shortly afterward, the lights that appear only in complete darkness. She watched as the lights formed themselves into shapes. A dog, a horse and a girl. The girl remained while the other two vanished and began to dance in the street, appearing to sing although her lips made no noise.

As the girl moved she became more lifelike, less of a dream and more flesh and bone than anything. The girl continued to dance to the beat of an invisible drum, clapping her hands, whirling her skirt and singing to the beat. Her toes barely touched the ground as she twirled around in a cloud of delight.

The girl stopped. She turned away from Carmen and into the street. Frozen for one brief second, she stared at something beyond Carmen's line of vision. She began to treble, then turned to run.

Carmen watched as the young girl sprinted through the darkness, toward one of the alleyways. Her feet seemed not to touch the ground, she moved with such speed. Her dress, worn and tattered, remained dry as she ran in the pouring rain. Where was she going in such a hurry?

Carmen had to follow, find out. She bolted down the alley after her, where she slipped on some rotten fruit. The girl had disappeared into the night without a sound. Not more than ten paces away was a wall of solid stone at least 20 feet. There was no exit.

"Carmen"

The voice continued calling. "Carmen. Where are you?"

"I'm right here" She shouted.

"Carmen!" She heard sobbing "Carmen, come quickly!"

"I'm over here!"

"No, Carmen"

"Get up Carmen! Get up"

Following the voices Carmen caught sight of a young woman kneeling on the cobbles, baby in her arms. The woman screamed, then began running toward her. That face, pure terror. Looking into her eyes Carmen met with the blackness of coal; her eye sockets were empty. She continued to run past, but soon met with a stone wall. There was nowhere to go.

Pale moonlight shone down into the darkened alley, revealing a single innocent soul facing her demise. A dark cloaked figure approached her on horseback, the horse's hooves echoing between the walls of an otherwise silent pantomime. The young woman backed away slowly, her heart begging her to run, her soul knowing she could not.

The woman stepped toward the wall, her bare feet touching the stone streets in silence. Her arms stretched behind her, extending into the night. Stone met her outstretched fingers. The young woman clutched her naked arms to her chest and watched as the man encircled her. There was nowhere to run, no one to save her. Only her sister watched on in silence; the moon saw all. They heavens looked down upon that scene in the filthy alley, the eyes of angels, that is to say the stars. The day of judgment had come.

The man continued to encircle the frightened woman and child; the golden hind that was now trapped in his snare. Bringing his horse to a halt before her, he leant over her, causing her to look upward, her black eyes illuminated by the glare of the full moon. Soft innocent, pleading eyes met his own. The man smiled at her, his lips drawing thin to reveal a perfect white smile, the corners turned downward. Narrow lines furrowed his forehead. The young mother remained silent and still, her eyes fixed into the mans' begging for her life. The man remained indifferent to her plight.

Suddenly, the man let the reins drop onto the pommel of his saddle and reached his hand. The young mother, frozen with fear until that moment, watched as his hand extended. Tears flowed down her cheeks in gentle rivers as hope reappeared into her dark eyes. She gently clasped her hands, as if in prayer. At that moment she returned her gaze to the man's eyes. They had changed.

At that moment, the woman grew pale. The man's eyes were wide, hard and penetrating, stealing into her very soul. His teeth were clenched, only the lower row visible. The woman began to lower herself to the ground, her hands still in prayer, her body trembling with fear. The man's hand remained outstretched, as his other drew the sword from the scabbard on his back. The woman's eyes flashed as they caught the glint of cold steel in the moonlight. The woman opened her mouth for one final scream. Silence.

While still in the last throws of life, the young woman looked up at him once more. Her body writhed and twitched on the ground, the child falling from her arms onto the damp stone. For a brief moment he cried, there was some gurgling. He fell silent. Judgment had been passed, two fates had been sealed. The moon shone down on her sister, who was now on her way home.

The tall man leered over the young woman before him, her lifeless body laying in a hopeless tangle of emaciated arms and legs. The vermin of the city, one of many; one in a sea of evil that God had sent him to exterminate. A vile wench, her angelic features those of the devil, sent to destroy him, sent to twist his mind and condemn him to hell.

Using the soiled tip of his sword, the man turned her face upward. Tendrils of clotted blood dripped from her gaping mouth, her eyes rolled back into her head. That black hair, that beautiful silken hair, surrounded her head in disarray. Those delicate fingers, soft hands and skin haunted him. Her gypsies' clothing once white, now red; bathed in the colour of impurity and life. The colour of the devil.

He sneered at his victim, removing his blade, the woman's head flopped down onto the cobbles, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, dipping into the blood that surrounded her. Motionless, he stood over her with downcast eyes. The wind, blowing his robes into faint ripples, bestowed upon the scene an eerie stillness. The rider used her dress to wipe the blood from his blade, cutting off her bodice as he did so. The devil and the angel, the spider and the fly. To behold the Judge at that moment was to recoil with fear. The angel remained motionless

"May God have mercy upon your soul."

Mounting his horse, the man rode out of the alley and into the darkened streets.

Turning his horse around, he left the family in the street, not looking back. The mother lay face-down in the street, a heap of hair, fabric and blood on top of her child. Carmen's dear brother.

Carmen watched in disbelief as the man continued to ride by. He showed no remorse for what he had just done, giving it no more thought than the spider that traps and kills the fly. Claude Frollo. The city was his web.

A flash of lightening and everything was gone. Carmen's mother no longer lay in the street, the odor of blood no longer poisoned her lungs. Claude Frollo was gone.

Carmen sat in the rain, in the alley thinking of her mother. There was nothing she could have done. That man, that evil demon. He ruined her life. Her mother, sister and brother were all lost because of him. It was because of him that she would never really be sure who she was. He ruined Quasimodo's life. Carmen bent down and cried into the folds of her skirt.

The faint echo and splash of hoofbeats in the darkness woke her up. In the rain and darkness she could not see from hence they came, only listen. Run. She had to run. He would get her too. Carmen tried to get up, but couldn't. Her ankle was hot and swollen; she must have sprained it when she fell. Dragging herself near the wall she sat in silence, there was little else she could do.

Shaking with fear, Carmen waited as the hoofbeats got closer. She struggled to press herself against the damp, mildewed wall. The horse hit the ground in slow, even steps. A moment later she could feel the warm air from the horses' nostrils cut through the misty rain. The horse snorted, then balked, Carmen could hear its feet landing on the cobbles, then sliding and splashing in the shallow puddles that lay before her.

Carmen heard the rider dismount.

Tears began to flow from her eyes in thick streams and she could feel herself beginning to tremble. She tried not to breathe, for she would begin to choke if she did. "He mustn't find me, I'm not ready to die."

Two guards picked her up from the alley and carried her off to the Palais du Justice. Carmen's eyes shed tear after tear. She wanted so much to cry out, make them let her go, yet she couldn't. She was too tired, too scared. Her tearful eyes merely stared at the cobbles as they passed by, her body draped over the shoulder of a guard.


End file.
